


pressure point

by 17734



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Bathing, Distrust, F/M, First Time, Post-Relationship, Psychological Horror, Solas's Complicated Feelings, Solas's Endless Explanations, Unnegotiated Kinks, post break up seduction, scholarly!Lavellan, trickster!Solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17734/pseuds/17734
Summary: “Creators,” she breathes, biting back a whimper.“Why do you call for them?” Solas inquires, gently didactic, reasonable. His voice is in that paradoxical place between liquid smooth and darkly rough. The tongue of disaster is honeyed. “They cannot hear.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The darkness of this story begins subtle but everything goes down the rabbit hole by chapter three. Please expect a bit of scariness. :P

Anyone in the Inquisition’s Inner Circle can testify that Ellana Lavellan _abhors_ not knowing things.

  
Keeper Deshanna was always somewhat flummoxed by her apprentice’s insatiable curiosity. It was the same story throughout Lana’s entire childhood. The hahrens did not know enough tales. The clan did not possess enough books. Lana’s appetite for knowledge has no limits. The libraries at Skyhold and Haven were larger treats but even those she systematically devoured. She spends every tick of her freetime sprawled on the floor of her tower room, tomes spilled open and pored over. Even human history fascinates her.

  
This childlike wonder is more of an aid than a failing, of course. Her aptitude for memorizing Orlesian noble lines and high court etiquette were her chief weapons in Halamshiral. Her historical studies are ubiquitously useful. When she is not cooing over books or pestering her friends for insights, she is applying her knowledge to her work. Thus, as a leader, she is effective, decisive and sharp. Her successes around Thedas do not make her current predicament any easier.

  
After all, her problem is Solas.

  
“There has to be a clue to it somewhere,” Lana says firmly, staring hard at the ceiling of the dark tent. They are camping at the Forbidden Oasis and she is using her rest time to think. “Once I remember, I’ll be able to sort this all out.”

  
The hulking pile of blankets beside her groans.

  
“Abrupt changes of pace practically scream ‘dark secrets’,” she continues thoughtfully. “Oh, what if he has a wife? …No, no, that’s not nearly drastic enough. I really get the feeling there is danger involved.”

  
The blanket pile exhales heavily. “Lana, it’s the middle of the night.”

  
“Maybe I should examine his art again.” She chews on her lower lip for a moment before adding, “or snoop through all the papers on his desk when he’s out. I can ask Cole to distract him for me.”

  
Dorian Pavus emerges from his blankets just enough to fix her with a bleary-eyed scowl. “We’ve gone over this, Inquisitor,” he recites snidely, “and I cleave to my original point. There isn’t any hidden meaning to Solas breaking up with you. Either he has an abnormally tiny prick and is terrified you’ll find out- or he is simply a despicable arse.”

  
“No,” Lana shakes her head, completely unperturbed by this scathing assessment, “I’m quite convinced there is a deep, earth-shakingly significant reason for this. I’m going to figure it out.”

  
Dorian tugs the blankets over his head again with a long, piteous sigh. “Then can’t you please figure it out quietly? Some of us need our beauty sleep.”

  
Ellana frowns at him for a while. Dorian is brilliant, the gears of his mind turning just as quickly as hers. Why shouldn’t he be awake at midnight, helping her sort through the motives of their elven somniari? Beauty sleep is a ridiculous excuse because he clearly doesn’t need it. She’d sooner believe that he has to rest a certain number of hours every night to keep his fashionable mustache from falling off of his face.

  
“It sure is a nice night,” Lana comments loudly after a few minutes of thought. “Not too hot or anything.”

  
“Urggggh,” Dorian groans again, burying his head underneath a pillow. “I can _freeze_ your bedroll or set it on _fire_. Which do you prefer?”

  
“Alright, alright,” Lana sighs, finally giving up. She kicks off her blanket and abandons her half of the tent. The night air of the oasis is sandy but cool. The camp off the Intrinsic Pool smells of earth and fresh water. A coyote howls somewhere in the distance. The Inquisition scout standing guard at the camp’s perimeter glances over and nods.

  
Lana has half an inclination to go for a bath. She grabs a bar of soap out of her pack, a drying cloth and her weapon. One never knows when a giant spider will show up. As far as toiletries go, hers have nothing on the fancy things Dorian uses. Her Dalish roots taught her to travel light and she has never really become accustomed to the idea of returning over and over to the same place. Journeying with her Inner Circle is the most relaxed she ever gets. It feels ten times more natural than Skyhold’s stifling luxury and austere stained glass windows.

  
She leaves the camp and walks around the edge of the Intrinsic Pool. The waterfalls spilling from the Temple of Pride create a constant background noise, splashing and tumbling their way down. The water is cold when it touches her bare feet. She absently picks bunches of blood lotus and spindle weed, tucking them into her belt for later. Her mind turns over the problem of Solas, examining every word she can remember, every telling twitch of an eyelid.

  
“It was odd that he did not wish to drink from Mythal’s well,” she murmurs softly to herself, glancing up at the star-filled sky. “I thought he would jump at the chance. I thought it was all he’d ever have wanted.”

  
She is busy chasing this line of thought when she turns the corner of the pool and sees Solas sitting on a rock. She is at the farther end of the Intrinsic Pool now, the camp shielded from view by a tall pillar of stone. The waterfalls cast mist into the air, drops occasionally touching her cheek. Like her, Solas is dressed down and wears only a tunic with trousers. He has a thick canvas in his lap, a number of paints waiting in pots beside him. His eyes are narrowed in concentration. His feet are bare. He is recreating the pool on the page.

  
It looks like he is simply painting but Lana tastes magic in the air.

  
“Making a map of the wards?” she inquires, approaching him with silent steps.

  
Solas blinks, glancing up at her. “Inquisitor,” he greets coolly, calm and removed as he has been since leaving her in Crestwood. “Yes. This place has caught my interest. The magic is unfamiliar to me. I would rather not forget the shape of it.”

  
Thin, translucent lines are wrought into his drawing, tracing channels of magic and ancient wards. His work is exquisite as always, capturing both the look and the essence of the pool. Instead of feeling awed, Lana feels rankled. His tone grates against her like sandpaper for all that his voice is music.

  
He abandoned her in a place like this. He said he wanted to tell her what she meant to him then told her the Vallaslin was a slave marking instead. He offered to take it from her and she refused. He told her she was perfect as she was; then he cut her off entirely. An apology. A soft, shaken word. The sight of his back as he walked away.

  
He has been like this since, daring to hold her at a distance. He refuses to explain. He keeps his secrets close so Lana doesn’t know why- and Lana hates not knowing things. It maddens her. It kills her.

  
She lets none of her reactions show on her face however, a polite smile tugging the corner of her lips. “Examining the wards must take a lot of concentration. You’re not worried a giant spider will wander in and ruin your focus?”

  
“I set wards of my own, of course,” he assures her absently, returning to his work. “None of the wildlife here will be intruding. My spells don’t seem to keep out allies however.” He pauses. “I will be done in perhaps ten minutes more. Then you can have the pool for your bath.”

  
“That sounds reasonable,” Lana agrees easily, going to stand behind him and out of his line of sight. “The slightest outside disruption to the water’s surface could make it really difficult to see the wards, after all.”

  
“Yes,” says Solas, the greater part of his concentration still fixed on his art. “A lot of it is visible in the water flow, the way it connects with the temple.” He continues to tell her about the wards and she makes noncommittal hums at all the right places. He doesn’t hear the slip of cloth falling as she shucks off her tunic. Solas loves to educate people as dearly as he loves to draw. It doesn’t occur to him that she has no intention whatsoever of waiting politely for him to finish.

  
He sees her naked calves first as she wades out into the pool, then the curve of her rear, then the cascade of hair down her back. His impromptu lecture on ancient wards comes to a sudden halt, the words dying on his lips. Lana sinks waist-deep into the pool, trailing her fingers across the surface. It feels cool and fresh, pure enough to wash away the building pain of weeks. It is a balm to her confusion and hurt. It is ice for the flames of her pointless, stagnant resentment.

  
She cups her hands together and splashes water over her face. She turns in the starlight, her profile facing him as she pours another handful down her chest. He can see all of her now that isn’t hidden by the water. She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He is completely still on the pool’s edge, his sketchbook lying forgotten in his lap. His shoulders are tensed as though he is but a second from getting up and returning to their camp. He will leave the moment she reaches out to him. He will leave the moment she speaks. She does neither. Instead she sinks down into the pool, letting it soak into her hair before rising again. She throws her head back, her body arching as she sweeps sodden locks out of her eyes.

  
Lana is not certain how Solas views sex and intimacy. He was sparing with his kisses, even when he so freely called her his heart. His interest now as she bathes bleeds visibly through cracks in his untouchable persona. There is a greed that he never indulges fitted between searching eyes and stifled exhalations. His life of solitude has left its mark; his starvation for closeness, tenderness and trust cannot be hidden. Still he holds back. He has held himself back since the start. She has coaxed, waited and taken but she never once caught him for longer than an eyeblink.

  
The reason for his reserve is the same as his reason for leaving her. If she can get that one bit of information, she will understand both.

  
“I wonder,” Solas says then and his voice rasps like sand over stone. He is still watching her. She feels his gaze tracing her shape, memorizing her with the utmost attention. His hands have never loved her the way his eyes do now.

  
“I wonder.” The waterfall roars and it is not so hard for either of them to lose their train of thought. Words are white noise.“If I were to watch the spirits reenact this moment of my memory tonight in the Fade, what sort of being would take on your shape?” He speaks so quietly that she nearly misses the words. “Pain? Hope? Sadness? …Spite?”

  
Lana, who has been blithely rubbing her bar of soap across her arms and stomach, turns her head to look at him. He is asking her what she is feeling, casting guesswork into the air. She wonders if there is a spirit that could embody all four possibilities. Instead of saying so, she maintains a straight face.

  
“It would be a spirit of Fastidious Hygiene,” she informs him seriously.

  
“Really.”

  
“Oh, yes,” she assures.

  
“In my travels, I have met such spirits,” Solas tells her after a pause. He speaks as though they are standing in Skyhold’s rotunda together and she is pestering him for more tales. She smooths a soapy hand up her abdomen, weaving fingers over her clavicles and neck. Had she not glanced at him a moment before, she wouldn’t even know from his voice. His nails might not bite into the stone. His lips might not be parted with want. He might not be staring at her like a feral animal, seconds from lunging.

  
She finds breathing difficult all of a sudden; her heart has become a fledgling bird and it flutters madly in its cage. Still she manages to speak sensibly.

  
“If you’ve met Fastidiousness,” says Lana, “you understand the importance of taking your baths where you may.”

  
“Indeed!” he replies duly. “The spirit I met reminded me of Madame Vivienne. Without the opulent ensemble, mind you. It was lofty, condescending and full of snide criticisms. Still, ever since speaking with it, I feel sufficiently educated on the subject.”

  
“Do share your wisdom, Hahren,” Lana urges around the lump in her throat, “I won’t forgo the chance to hear it sans the scathing insults.”

  
She has been washing the same spot on her shoulder for a minute straight. It takes all her concentration just to keep her voice from shaking.

  
“Yes, ah…” She hears him shift on the rock but she does not dare look at him anymore. “The spirit mainly stressed the point of thoroughness.”

  
“Thoroughness?” she repeats softly. Then she remembers to wash down the side of her ribs.

  
“Indeed, vhenan,” he says, distracted. He is clearly not paying attention to his own words but the sound of the endearment nearly rips a cry from Ellana’s throat. “As Fastidiousness tells it, to be truly clean, you must not miss a single spot.”

  
Lana nods mechanically in agreement. Her eyes are burning and so is her skin. She cannot cry because it would shatter the flimsy spell she has put over Solas. She cannot let her knees buckle because then she would lose everything- his heated voice, his unwavering focus and his closeness. She would only have the water left, and the darkness, just as in Crestwood.

  
“Did I…did I miss something?” Lana stares hard at the waterfall beside her, feeling droplets of water splash her skin and nestle into her hair. Solas does not reply for a long moment and she is certain he is gone. He has left. Nothing she says is enough and nothing she does can bind him to her.

  
Then, “I am afraid so,” his quiet voice answers. “The back of your neck for one.”

  
“A-ah,” Lana nods. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder. She nearly drops the soap when she lifts it to her neck. Her hands tremble despite the iron will she steels herself with. It’s probably cheap and disrespectful, trying to win him back like this…but all’s fair in love. She keeps her back straight, pretending she is still and unwavering as the lines of his art. She feels his hungry stare caressing the curve of her breast, the line of her hip. She pretends she is abstract color in a willowy, wanting shape.

  
Solas kindly points out that she has forgotten the undersides of her arms, her hips and the small of her back. When he reminds her to wash her ears, she is nearly undone. She rubs a soapy hand up the blade of her ear, feeling dizzy and warm despite the cool water. The shivers that assail her when she traces her earlobe make her clench her thighs together in the pool. Her breathing is quicker now though she tries to hide it. She moves to wash her other ear and drops the bar of soap with a gasp. She doesn’t bother to retrieve it.

  
Instead of sinking into the pool to rinse herself, Lana pours handfuls of water down her chest and over her shoulders. She is a bit surprised at herself honestly. She has never done this sort of provocative thing. It is nearly alarming at what desperation can flood up from beneath a veneer of methodical logicality. Her composure these past few weeks was a cheap façade; even in the privacy of her own mind, she had not admitted to herself how much.

  
She has not raged. She has not wept. Instead she treated the whole matter like a problem to fix, a puzzle to solve. Hit the right pressure point and her lover would come back. She treats the Breach and Corypheus the same way, creating step-by-step agendas instead of anguishing over the dead. Her fragile soul is sheathed in armor forged of pragmatism. This is her limit however. She allowed herself to love too tenderly and deeply. Now emotion moves her and she has no reservations. Her hands smooth over her breasts and sweep water from her hair. She half closes her eyes, tilting her face toward the night sky. The sensations leave her shuddering and lonely but she does it for the purpose of enticing him.

  
There is a soft whisper from the water behind her. “Here,” says Solas quietly and his voice is closer than before. Lana stops breathing but she glances over her shoulder. He has stepped stately into the pool still wearing his unassuming tunic and breeches. He is holding out her misplaced bar of soap.

  
There are falsehoods to observe. It isn’t too late to keep pretending this is all about cleanliness. Neither of them is fooled but this game has kept Solas from leaving. It has made conversation possible where no words could have been said. Lana smiles and reaches for the soap. “…thank you. I must have dropped it.”

  
He sees her hands shaking and his fingers wrap over her wrist. “Shall I help you?”

  
He has hidden himself too deeply behind his eyes. She cannot really see him. He looks like a shadowy sketch on a background, only his outlines visible. He is not offering secrets or explanations. At this point, Lana will take anything that she can get.

  
“Yes,” she says. The word comes out weak even though she manages to hold his gaze. She stifles a gasp when Solas touches her shoulder and turns her, closing the distance between them enough to drag the soap over her back. His touch is surreal. Failure is more believable than this disarming sensory feedback. Has she really convinced him to hold her? Will he desert her again if she breathes the wrong way?

  
She stares down at the water, her hair spilling over one shoulder. She is about to wake up and he’ll coldly say, ‘it doesn’t count in the Fade’. She’ll fall out of this dream; she’ll disturb Dorian again to hysterically beg for comfort. She imagines the Tevinter mage awkwardly saying, “there, there,” and telling her a rhyme in his native tongue.

  
Solas puts a hand to her waist and draws her closer. She has already washed her stomach but he traces the bar of soap over it regardless. Lana presses a hand tightly over her mouth, faint and overheated in the chilly water.

  
Solas sighs, a ragged and short exhalation. Then he lets the soap fall back into the water, catching her wrist instead. He bats her hand away from her mouth, taking her jaw in steady fingers and turning her face toward him. He kisses her fiercely, pulling her body back against his. She is pliant and subdued, rendered passive by her own fear of error. She stands in his arms, trembling.

  
Ellana does not have any basis of comparison with which to describe Solas’s method. He is the only person she has ever kissed. How he coaxes his way into her mouth and winds his tongue with hers feels inevitable. Once Solas commits to a course of action, it happens- that’s how it feels. It happens regardless of external influences and unexpected factors. He bends the world to him. He knows exactly what efforts to expend in order to elicit the desired result.

  
His palm caresses her stomach. His finger runs along the edge of her ear. He licks at her mouth with urgency then pulls her hips back firmly against him. The heat of it begins to sabotage her cautious mental narrative. Her stillness becomes bonelessness. She is leaning into his touch and chasing after his kisses. His hands fervently trace her shape, slipping on her sudsy skin. There are signs of a dangerous desperation in the rhythm of his breathing and the beating of his heart. She feels it pressed against her back but she sees nothing on his face. He kneads her breasts, banishing those warning flickers from her mind. The tug of his fingers on her nipple has her seizing his arms for support.

  
He draws back slightly; when she turns to face him, his unreadable expression has faltered. Anguish is seeping through; there are hidden oceans of misery in his eyes. It all gets distorted by want and conflicting impulses. His gaze trails from her mouth to her naked body. He caresses her arms and slips his fingers into her hair.

  
“I’ve wanted this,” he confesses and embraces her. She wraps sodden arms around his waist. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, sucking compulsively at her throat. His whispers into the skin there between flicks of his tongue. “Ir abelas, my heart. Is it too late to fix my mistake? I should never have let you close.”

  
“Don’t think about it,” she says, her voice strained from breathlessness. She plucks at his tunic, slipping a hand beneath to touch his hip. The thickness of the air comes from mist, the fine spray of waterfalls catching on air currents. It isn’t steam. She shouldn’t be feeling light-headed.

  
“It will make everything worse,” he tells her but he is already petting her hips and kneading her ass. She cannot even get him to stop long enough to pull off his shirt.

  
“If we have to suffer later, Solas,” she coaxes, “why should we voluntarily suffer now?”

  
She is proud of herself for that argument. It sounds very reasonable.

  
He straightens, catching her upper arms and steering her out of the water. “Perhaps you are right,” he tells her though there is a lot of weight in that ‘perhaps’. He lets her pull off his tunic, going after the tip of her ear when she gets distracted by his chest. “I don’t want you to suffer,” he breathes against her ear. She shudders from head to toe. “I want to bring you delight. Can a handful of memories brace us against an eternity of cold? Or will the sweetness only weaken our resolve?”

  
“Don’t think about it,” she tells him again, pulling open the laces of his pants. This time she is begging.

  
He doesn’t help her get his clothes off any faster. Instead he is a constant obstruction, caressing and squeezing parts of her without pause. When she finally casts away the tangle of fabric, he’s poisoning himself with fatalistic hypotheses again. He clings and runs his hands all over her but his mind won’t stop. His pain is so much greater than she’d anticipated. It makes her hasty. It makes her brave.

  
She hushes him with her mouth over his and slides her hand over his length. He tenses in her arms, eyes going half-lidded. She whispers against his lips, “be one with me, ma sa’lath.” He breaks away, dragging open-mouthed kisses over her ink-inscribed cheek. She presses close, crushing her breasts against his chest and lining her hips up with his. “Right now, _right now_ …right-”

  
“Yes,” he concedes and pulls her down to the sandy bank. His back is to the stone. The waterfall roars behind Lana. She wraps her thighs around his waist, shivering as he aligns himself. She’s dripping and slick; he slips some inches into her, deeper and faster than she’d expected. His brow is knitted, a sheen on his skin that is either mist or sweat. “Ar lath ma,” she gasps out; he seizes her hips and pulls her fully down onto him.

  
She is expecting the wrench of pain but a muffled yelp still escapes her lips. Solas groans raggedly, clutching her closer; a liquid string of elvhen spills from his lips. She can usually understand him even if he speaks the language all wrong. He learned it from memories in the Fade, picking up outdated, _archaic_ phrases and inflections. Still she must be delirious, dreaming or both because it sounds like he said, _‘So I’m your one love, child? You mean to slay me with guilt before our battle is even begun!’_

  
Lana simply lies slumped over him, thinking of alternating pronunciations and derivatives. She cannot move at all, impaled as she is. She aches and pants and thinks back on Keeper Deshanna’s explanations of their oldest texts. The language was flavored differently eight hundred years past, all thees and thous and what needs must. Solas is overly poetic in Common. He speaks as though the words need to be beautiful in and of themselves.

  
Maybe he meant ‘association’ or ‘relationship’ instead of battle. The words are similarly structured and easily confused what with the nuances. That would make a lot more sense.

  
Then healing magic shivers along Lana’s thighs and waist, sinking frosty numbness into her abdomen. She jumps and clenches hard, her hips jerking reflexively forward. This buries Solas deeper inside her and he smothers a shout in the crook of her neck. His arcane fingers leave bruises on her flesh, holding her close in a vise. The pain evaporates like water on a forge but without it, Lana feels even less composed.

  
What was she thinking? Association and relationship don’t make sense in that sentence either!

  
_“Guh-aah,”_ she gasps, gripping Solas’s shoulders. The apostate’s clothes he usually wears are deceptive. His body is hard as rock and toned muscle coils lithely up his arms. He walks around with his nose in a book like any frail, scholarly mage. Beneath her hands, he feels as though he spends every waking hour running through forests and hunting. His frame is so much broader than hers. His hands are so much larger. Dorian’s concerns dismissed, Lana isn’t certain Solas’s considerable length hasn’t split her in half.

  
“You didn’t _tell_ me you’d never lain with anyone,” Solas despairs through the sound of their tattered, broken breaths. He has his head tipped back against the stone. His mouth is twisted as though he is in agony. He is still speaking in his barely-intelligible, archaic elvhen. Lana scarcely listens past ‘ _Tel’dirthana ma’_ so her translations are highly suspect.

  
“Slight technicality,” she replies vaguely. His throat is exquisite. She helps herself to the stretch of his neck, nibbling and sucking at his freckled skin. Then she has his clavicles to deal with. She is a busy woman.

  
“Slight technicality!” he repeats with sharp incredulity. His usually melodic voice is ragged and rough. “If my enemies had -??crafted-- you to _destroy me_ , I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  
“That’s not a word, Solas,” Lana derides patiently. “Life-craft…living-craft?”

  
“Bioengineer,” he bites out, switching to Common. “Yes, it is.”

  
“What even is that? That’s not a word.”

  
He turns them and tips her over onto the bank as if she weighs nothing. She ends up on her back in the damp sand, her legs splayed open around his waist and their bodies still joined. He looms over her, his features etched in some strange beauty she cannot pin down. His eyes are more powerful than they should be. She’s convinced he is a king sometimes, senseless as it is. Then he rocks into her and her speculations disintegrate.

  
There is a sliding, slipping sensation followed by raw impact. One or the other completely steals her breath. She has a handful of earth and a grip on Solas’s elbow. If she were to reach out, she could touch the edge of the water. He is supporting himself with one hand pressed down beside her head. The other digs into her hip, pulling her back onto him with each thrust. His pace is probably too much. His magic stole away the pain but he digs into her molten insides while she tries to dig herself into the ground. If she agreed that bio-whatever was a word, he might go slow enough for her to cope. If he would stop striking her deep inside every single time, she could soften her cutting hitches of breath. Her low voice is rendered strained and high-pitched.

  
Solas’s hips smack harder into hers. His lips press blindly into her forehead. He’s working her up on purpose, leaning back to tug her hips into his lap. Her stomach tightens and spasms. She digs her heels into the earth, trying to find purchase. Every time she starts to collect her thoughts, he spears her again and scatters them. Her gasps turn into mewls, her keens into sobs.

  
“Let go,” he bids her. It’s a command. He twists into her and takes her apart. He gets an arm beneath the small of her back and bows over her chest. It’s his short, shallow thrusts that finish her. Her body seizes around him, squeezing and rippling where they are joined. He muffles her scream with his hand clamped over her mouth, soothing her with breathless adoring words, kissing her ear.

  
They’re both gasping after that. She’s boneless, hanging from his grasp like a rag doll. Her heart pulses with her still-fluttering inner walls; the rest of her has collapsed. Everything is hazy and warm, pleasure tingling everywhere. She could fall asleep. She would if he wasn’t still fucking her.

  
Her mind detaches, drawing a hazy fugue state close for insulation. None of this is fastidious as far as bathing is concerned. Her back is nestled in a cradle of dirt. Her skin is glazed with sweat. Her lower half is throbbing, nerves still buzzing with intractable waves of heat. The clear cut rules of time are sullied by this filthy joining. Solas holds her like he has needed this for- years- but he holds the moment like he won’t ever have anything else. Her perceptions of him contradict each other.

  
Senselessly, Lana thinks that perhaps some secrets should never be known. Some things are too horrible. Even ignorance is a flimsy, inadequate shield. Some things should not exist at all beneath shadows and lies.

  
Then Solas hits a spot inside her that makes her arch right off the ground. “Creators-” Lana jolts out of her daze, thighs seizing his waist as she grabs at him. He sits back on his heels, letting her pull herself up onto his lap. She clings to him, gasping and staring wide-eyed at the waterfall over his shoulder. He brushes sand from her back, nuzzling her neck. The suckling kisses he leaves there send a violent bolt of heat through her. The groan she expels is very nearly pathetic.

  
“Not tired already, vhenan?” he baits her. He disguises the lilt in his voice with tenderness but she hears it anyway.

  
“This…” she rambles, “this reminds me of high dragons.”

  
“I would be interested to hear how,” he says, now holding her by the hips and grinding into her. He kisses her jaw. He exhales a heavy breath into the crook of her neck.

  
“Some of them are too strong…so we wait to fight them until we are more experienced- _nnha_ ,” she breaks off, going rigid. Solas has snaked a hand between their bodies and is pressing his thumb to the apex of her sex.

  
“Then you are commenting on our difference in experience,” Solas concludes. His ministrations have gotten her to writhe in his lap, rocking them at a gentle but headier pace.

  
Lana grips at his shoulders, trying to find leverage with her knees in the sand. Her skin is too heated. Her body is desperate for something she’s too spent to chase. “There’s most definitely…a difference in stamina,” she manages.

  
He puts an opened mouth kiss to her ear, his breath falling on her in a sweltering gust. “Perhaps, da’len,” he tells her silkily, “you should have considered that before you interrupted my drawing.”

  
It’s like the door slamming shut on a trap.

  
Dismay slackens Lana’s face, tinged with an odd edge of panic. He takes sips of it from her lips. He winds long fingers into her hair and courts her tongue until she is tangled through him and around him. He plucks at her, finding every sensitive spot just to see how quickly he can drive her atop him. She rocks her hips, slipping on him, wrecked and worked up again. Her sloppy movements finally catch on her aching need. Stars spark behind her closed eyelids. She clenches hard again, pulses and bursts of rapture searing up her body. Solas cradles her to him, whispering lyrical Elvhen words that mean the filthiest of praise. The moon is not higher than she is but the Void itself is less empty. She’s shaking after that. Her hands shake. When she realizes he is still hard and deep inside her, she nearly starts crying.

  
“There now,” he offers in a ragged breath. “You can endure.”

  
“Don’t be cruel.” Her lips are nearly too weary to move.

  
Solas nuzzles her hair, tense and wanting beneath her body. “It’s not deliberate, vhenan,” he murmurs, clutching at her thighs and her hips, “but my very nature is cruel.” He kisses her ear. “Perhaps yours is too.”

  
She stares mutely at the pool behind him. He always keeps himself apart from her. He always distances himself and this is no different. She’s sick of it really. There should not be a wall between them now. He is pressed against her skin not lurking like a ghost in the distance. She digs her nails into his back and presses her lips blindly to his ear.

  
“You’ll be mine, I swear it.”

  
His arms are wound tightly around her back and his voice is dizzy. “Precious little of me was free for the taking,” he whispers. “Free of duty, free of debt. That much you’ve already carved from my chest.”

  
“Give yourself to me,” she says. It could be an entreaty or a demand. It could be both.

  
He only laughs hollowly, merry and broken. “So _impatient!_ ”

  
She exhales, beginning to feel numb. His emotional state now is so complex that she can barely deal with him. The way he needles her is defensive, a reaction to pain. Has she hurt him? Did she damage him somehow by doing this? She wanted him back; that’s all. She could not have predicted this outcome. What is this anguish? What _tortured grief_ has Solas been hiding behind his many fine masks?

  
There is a reserve of strength she keeps somewhere, saved especially for when she’s on the brink of death. She shifts, drawing back to meet his eyes. The murky blue of them cuts; something wrenches and tears in her heart. She kisses his mouth, caressing his face with both hands. “Solas,” she soothes. “ _Solas.”_

  
She kisses his eyelids then his cheek. When it doesn’t help, she tries baser tactics and drags her tongue over the blade of his ear.

  
A hiss escapes him and she feels his length twitch inside her. She exploits the opportunity, squeezing her inner muscles tightly around him. He jerks beneath her, grabbing at her thighs. His voice when he speaks is winded, as if she punched him in the gut. “Quick learner,” he gasps.

  
_“Give in,_ ” she says, looking through her tunneling vision.

  
He curses, making a sound that might be a sob. Then he stands, effortlessly lifting her with him. She lies draped over his torso, clinging with her arms, legs too numb to tighten. He holds her hips, thrusting once, twice. The frantic, brutal movements lack the precision he used before. Lana feels her focus slipping. The blackness nestling around her sight steals the oasis away. Her sweaty hands slip on his straining back. He ruts into her, gripping her thighs, crying out. She feels him shake, hears the snarl he smothers against her shoulder. The heat of his seed fills her just as her last dregs of strength expire.

  
She blacks out.

 

o0O0o

 

A bit later, Dorian is shaking her awake. “Lana,” he says with exasperation, “it’s time to get going. This is why you should sleep _punctually_ like a _sane_ person. Did you stay up all night?”

  
Lana cracks open her eyes, disoriented. The transition is jarring. She can still hear echoes of Solas’s voice in her ear. She can still feel the spray of the waterfall filling the air. Her bedroll is solid beneath her fingers however. The tent she shares with Dorian blocks out the morning sun.

  
“I was…dreaming?” she says, her sleep-muddled brain fumbling with the words. Nevertheless, she’s not terribly surprised. Solas is secretive but he’s never as strange as he was in _this_ memory. He doesn’t grieve and despair. He doesn’t toy with and mock her. It would take more to win him back than bathing naked in a waterfall.

  
“Creators,” she groans- and makes the mistake of sitting up.

  
Aches flare abruptly and intensely throughout her body. Honestly, she’s taken dragons down without hurting this much afterward. She slumps back onto the bedroll, her breath gusting from her lungs in a whoosh.

  
“Are you alright?” Dorian asks, kneeling down beside her with a frown. He conjures a mage light in the palm of his hand, squinting at her. “The marks all over your neck, are those-”

  
“Go away,” she groans, grabbing her pillow and shoving it over her face.

  
“Alright, alright,” the altus backpeddles, slipping out of the tent. “I’ll just tell the others that we’re leaving a few hours late, shall I? I’ll try to keep them from eating all the breakfast.”

  
He disappears, leaving Lana to her unsettled revelations. She scrunches her eyes shut, exhaling a shaken breath. It’s not exactly fear that she’s feeling. Perhaps it is a muted tincture of alarm. She may have noticed cracks in Solas’s mask before; she has never peered through and seen something that she simply cannot comprehend. It’s like picking up a familiar and dearly loved carving only to realize it’s actually a box full of dangerous things. It’s like discovering horrors in a happy childhood memory through use of an adult’s hindsight.

  
The questions she pondered last night remain unanswered. On the other hand, Solas revealed to her his pain- and all pain has a cause. She’s suddenly desperate to know what can make him look so hopeless, so exhausted and so lost. She wants to know because if she knows, she’ll be able to help him. Surely no apostate’s problem is too big for her resources as Inquisitor. She has to get him to explain.

  
At least, that’s her brain’s response to the whole situation. Her visceral response remains, as ever, unnerved. Perhaps it’s a sign of an inflated ego but Corypheus himself does not make her feel so out of her depth. She can handle Corypheus; there is nothing in his eyes that she cannot understand. Solas, however…

  
“Step by step,” Lana murmurs to herself, making a fist in the corner of her blanket. “Gather information, form conclusions, make plans. Solve the puzzle and the solution becomes clear. Just hit the right pressure point.”

  
She shoves off her blankets and gets dressed, aches be damned.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a tremendous strain involved with leadership. It exerts physical and psychological pressure, crushing like a crucible. Muscles harden into iron. Flesh grows accustomed to injury. The mind accepts the weight of harsh, cold-blooded choices. It is dangerous to always have the final word. It’s perilous to receive all credit and all blame. At the same time, Ellana cannot leave her role as Inquisitor alone.

  
If she has power, she has to apply it the best way she can think of. If she acquires more information, she has to tailor her approach and fine tune her strategy. The compulsion that drives her is inescapable. The world is big and she is infinitesimally small. For some reason, she can never quite convince herself it’s impossible. She believes that, once thoroughly understood, every problem can be solved.

  
A butterfly once had the same thought in the face of a hailstorm.

  
Still, the Inquisition’s achievements convince Lana that her goal to defeat Corypheus is not overly audacious. The pieces are finally coming into place. Now that Flemeth has taught Morrigan to become a dragon, they really might have a chance. They can end the threat once and for all.

  
It boggles the mind a bit. Magic of this godly level should not be treated as a resource, organized duly into mundane lists. Nevertheless, that is exactly what Lana is doing. She chased Morrigan through an Eluvian not an hour ago. Now she is nodding to herself. A dragon for a dragon. A broken god for a not-yet god. Flemeth is Mythal and Mythal watches over them.

  
She stops short of allowing her faith to get involved, of course. She has to be pragmatic.

  
If she pauses to consider everything she has learned, she will most certainly falter. Her beloved fables have become dust. In their place is Abelas’s dry recitations, a witch’s vow for retribution and Solas’s subtle contempt. It leaves her terrified but she cannot afford to flail about.  There is nothing else to do but progress.

  
It has been several weeks since she, Dorian and Iron Bull left the Forbidden Oasis. She only got back to Skyhold four days ago. The journey across Orlais is a long one. Not to mention she had fewer companions than usual. According to her scouts, Solas packed up his things and took off in the middle of the night. He also deigned to tell them that he would return to Skyhold on his own.

  
This bit of information was the final confirmation Lana needed to make her conclusion: Solas is _extremely upset_. She knows this because he reacted exactly the same way when his friend, Wisdom, died. If an event makes Solas feel so much emotion that his composure cracks, he leaves the group and deals with it alone. He never risks other people seeing through his mask if he can help it.

  
Now that everyone is safely home again, Lana has not seen him once. He’s here, of course. Varric has mentioned bouncing book ideas off of him. Cassandra cites just yesterday having asked him his opinion of Morrigan and the Well. Apparently he is his normal, courteous self. Lana just cannot seem to walk into a room that he has not already vacated.

  
She has been fairly busy, of course. Between strategizing with her council and conferring with Morrigan, her days have been harrowing. Bull is asking her to consider an alliance with the Qunari. Harritt is insisting that she equip everyone with dragon bone, webbing and scales. Her head is packed full of Josephine’s treatises and Leliana’s reports. Cullen, at least, has had little input. The troops are en route from the Arbor Wilds. The trebuchets are calibrated quite well.

  
Hammers and nails should not be scorned; simplicity is beautiful.

  
When her responsibilities are moderately dealt-with however, Lana is left with her most daunting problem. She has hurt the person she respects and loves most of all. Sadly, however, she cannot say her actions made the schism between them any worse. Seeing nothing of Solas is almost easier to deal with than facing his cold, professional mask.

  
She leaves the garden and walks through Skyhold for a while. As expected, she cannot find the mage. Thus, she does the only sensible thing: she goes to see Cole.

  
Compassion is lurking on the highest floor of the tavern, his face half-hidden by his hat. He is sitting on the floor, feeding droplets of milk to a scruffy kitten. Lana approaches him quietly and kneels down beside him.

  
“He doesn’t want you to find him,” Cole tells her without prompting.

  
Lana thinks carefully about her response, looking up to watch dust motes filter through sparse beams of sunlight. This level of the tavern always seems like a separate world, as if its otherworldly inhabitant affects it. Why else would an entire floor of a brand new building sit forgotten, gathering dust?

  
“Well, Cole,” she reasons distantly, “don’t you think that if Solas and I spoke, I might be able to help him?”

  
Cole does not look away from the kitten but that’s just how he is. “You help him understand,” he explains with feeling, “and understanding is wisdom. He has always been logical but never so wise. Awareness makes the sacrifices hurt…too much.”

  
“The problem,” Lana tries again with patience, “is that _I_ need to understand _him_.”

  
“That won’t be a problem,” Cole assures her kindly. “You’re good at that.”

  
“No, what I mean is…” Lana trails off, realizing that Compassion’s attention has wandered. She tilts her head, trying to peak at his face beneath his hat. “Cole? Cole?” she says quietly. “Talk to me, Cole.”

  
“He isn’t _their_ surrogate,” Cole explains with feeling. “He’s _her_ surrogate. She cannot scream unless she uses his voice.”

  
It takes all of Lana’s willpower not to groan in frustration. “You’re talking about…completely different people now, aren’t you?” The scholar in her agonizes. “Cole, you have to _specify_ pronouns. That’s how it is in every language. If you use unspecified pronouns, no one can understand what you’re…look, please, can’t you just tell me where he is?”

  
Cole blinks, looking blankly up at her. “Who?”

  
“Solas,” she says. “Where is Solas?”

  
“He’s…less here than before,” the spirit answers slowly, frowning as though it’s a difficult question. “It doesn’t all fit into a humble body. It gets worse the more he wakes up.”

  
Lana sighs and seats herself against the tavern wall. She’s tired. She has no idea how to fix any of this but how can she begin if Solas won’t see her? She’ll apologize once she finds him. Then she’ll try to extract information. It’s hard because she can barely stand to think of the Oasis now. The memory tantalizes her, tempting her through her strictest focus. On the other hand, if she gives into temptation and thinks about it, she feels increasingly alarmed.

  
Seeing through Solas’s mask should have told her who he is as a person. Instead, she got the sense he _masquerades_ as a person. His inconspicuous persona conceals something both unsettling and vivid. He’s striking, he’s vivacious, he’s arrogant, he’s wild, he’s unchangeable. He puts on an act so that he doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb. He _has to_ or he would never go unnoticed. He’s a dragon hunching down to blend in with a flock of sheep! Glimpsing him should have answered her questions. Instead, it changed ‘what is he hiding?’ to ‘what even is he?’

  
No, truly. What even is he?

  
Then Lana casts the memories away. She is too logical to panic like this. How could Solas be anything beyond what he claims? She knows him. She knows his mind and she knows his capabilities. He has been with her this entire time, fighting and bleeding beside her. This unease of hers is ridiculous.

  
She ends up holding a sleepy kitten who snores quietly in her lap. At some point, she realizes that Cole is gone.

 

o0O0o

 

Next, Lana attempts to find Solas in the Fade.

  
This is something of a futile gesture. Solas is a master of walking the Fade. Lana most frequently does it on accident. If he wants to avoid her here, she doubts there is anything she can do to catch him. She has a sparse few more ideas to try after this but she’ll have to involve her other friends. Dorian and Bull gave her enough knowing looks already on the way back from the Oasis. She knows they would be willing to help her. That said, she isn’t terribly enthusiastic about explaining the situation.

  
She finds herself in an eerie mimicry of Skyhold, its staircases shadowed and its corridors silent. She traces her path down from her tower, heading for the painted rotunda. It is difficult to maintain her focus. Dreaming is the antithesis of logic. Rationality hinders imagination. Lana, with her sensible mindset and her feet planted so firmly on the ground, is poorly suited to this endeavor. The only thing allowing her to dream lucidly is the Anchor. Correspondingly, she lets her left hand guide her.

  
The rotunda is empty.

  
Lana exhales in the Fade’s false air. Dust stirs with the current of her breath, each displaced particle reflecting a different color. The murals on the walls have more presence than in the waking world. She looks at them and sees her memories- painted vividly and violently upon the wall.

  
The abstract representation of Haven steals the warmth from her body; that’s what freezing to the brink of death feels like. The image of Celene smells of perfume and resonates like a distant quartet. The painting of the Nightmare Realm emits a purring whisper.

  
_Comprehension will disguise itself as your savior, Inquisitor, until you finally possess it. Then you’ll understand everything perfectly: what you can’t save, what you can’t change and the true extent of your helplessness._

  
She hears what it said to Solas as well. She murmurs the words to herself, staring at the starkly-formed shapes of the design.

  
“Tell me, betrayer, do you care for nothing but victory? Your pride will be your ruin.”

  
A shadow moves in the corner of her eye. She whirls around, seeing nothing but paintings. The abstract designs drift lazily over the walls, shifting when she looks away from them. There is something hiding behind the colors. There’s a figure creeping through the artistic timeline, changing his shape to blend in with his surroundings.

  
Lana walks to the table in the center of the room and picks up a worn, wooden paint brush. From its tip, a drop of green paint spills onto the floor. When she looks up from it, the murals have consumed everything. They encircle the room and stretch up to the library. They bleed into the corridors and line the walls of the stairwell. They etch themselves onto the doors. Were they real, it would have taken Solas a hundred years to paint them all.

  
Ellana sighs again and sets the paint brush down. She prefers the waking world.

  
“Fen’Harel take the Fade,” she says. “Why can’t I find you, Solas?”

  
He replies from nowhere, “because I am not asleep.”

  
It could be that dreaming of his voice awakens her. When she opens her eyes however, she thinks it must surely be the cold. Her quilts have come loose from her body and she is wrapped only in a thin sheet. The warmth has left her limbs, stolen away as she dreamed. She feels like ice. For a moment, she thinks of Haven. Then she realizes that the balcony doors of her room have come open. It’s all these autumn winds.

  
She sits up and then goes still. Solas is standing in the balcony doorway, just to the left of her fireplace. Moonlight comes flooding into the chamber, edging his frame. He is watching her silently, like some untouchable, timeless thing in its rightful place. He is wearing a long, thick robe made of magnificent black fur. It is unadorned and simple in its way. At the same time, it is impossibly fine. She cannot tear her eyes away from the sight of him wearing it.

  
“Hello,” he says.

  
“Hello,” Lana repeats. Then her thoughts shrug away sleep the way dogs shake off water. She is awake now, isn’t she? The surreal sight of Solas on her balcony makes her second guess herself. She runs through a list of mental checks- she knows where she is, she knows why and she knows how she got here. If this was an illusion of the Fade, at least some of that knowledge would be absent.

  
“May I come in?” Solas inquires very politely. As before, he has chosen to speak to her only in elvhen. It is an absurd question- because clearly this is _his_ room. The entire castle is his. One has only to look at him to know it.

  
She waves him in nonetheless, trying to expel her disorientation. What Solas has chosen to wear this evening is beside the point. Dorian might be overjoyed to hear that the Fade expert owns something nice. Lana, however, is more concerned with the opportunity. She has been looking for Solas for days. Now she finally has her chance.

  
Solas walks stately over to her and seats himself on the edge of her bed. He is wearing a tender smile. It’s not what she expected to see when they finally came face to face. Has he decided to forgive her? He was definitely angry that night, as wretched and subtly as the emotion expressed itself. Now he appears calm. He reaches out, brushing her hair back from his face.

  
“You look tired,” he observes.

  
She blinks. “I chased Morrigan through the eluvian and ended up meeting Mythal,” she tells him quietly, “just yesterday.”

  
“I see,” he replies with ease. “That must have been a singular experience. Tell me then, what did you think of her?”

  
“She was fearsome,” she says thoughtfully, “and puzzling. She has a mystery for every one of a thousand years. I need more information to really make a judgement.”

  
“A wise policy,” he agrees, “though such information is now difficult to acquire.”

  
Lana has a sudden doubt. She was able to keep her ground when facing her own people’s god. She was able to explain her plan to her advisors. Prepping for the battle to come was mundane labor and she tended to it well. Through it all however, she had no reliable second opinion. Solas sees without the obstructions of religion and prejudice to color his perceptions. His objective point of view grounds her. It bolsters her decisions.

  
When he avoids her, she doesn’t have access to his insight.

  
Was she a fool to gamble with him? Her logical brain sneers at her foolish heart. She tried to seize too much of Solas and in so doing, chased him away. Perhaps she needs his assistance too dearly. Perhaps she shouldn’t dare to love him.

  
She looks into his eyes and knows it though. She’s a fool.

  
“I owe you an apology,” she tells him quietly.

  
“What for?” he inquires, tilting his head. “Trying to make sense of a situation you weren’t allowed to understand? Growing frustrated when you were treated unfairly?” His gaze slides away from her, turning distant. “I gave you little alternative, vhenan. The mistake was mine; I should have foreseen your reaction.”

  
“I hurt you,” Lana says simply, “and I didn’t mean to. That’s what I am apologizing for.”

  
“Ah.” He still doesn’t look at her, watching the mountains through the balcony doors. “Sometimes terrible crimes must be committed for the good of the many. What I cannot forgive is a crime committed for the sake of one’s own selfish impulses. My code of morals has distinguished me from my enemies for as long as I can remember. Until now, I have never violated these standards. I took pride in being better; that is what you stole from me.” A dark look flits over his face. “Resisting temptation, however, was my responsibility. The fault is mine. I should not have been angry with you.”

  
She leans forward, trying to get a better look at his eyes. “You said I was trying to slay you with guilt. It follows that you feel guilty.” She studies his expression but finds nothing. “How is being with me a crime?”

  
“The crime is exploitation,” he tells her, his voice even calmer than before. He smiles at her then, catching her shoulder. Slowly, he guides her to lie down on her bed. Then he stretches himself out beside her, resting his head on her pillow. “Don’t worry,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I will explain.”

  
“Oh,” she says, giving a weak smile, “good.”

  
“Let’s see,” Solas says, reaching over to thread his fingers through her hair. The casual intimacy is incongruous with their weighty conversation. It surprises her because she pictured him keeping his distance, closed-off and addressing her from across the room. Instead, he has come to her. He has initiated contact. He speaks to her readily and warmly.

  
“Your nature is the most crucial factor,” he says, eyes locked with hers. “You have accomplished momentous and vastly consequential things. You have survived terrifying situations without faltering. More than that, you possess a rare wisdom; you see value in things that society blindly fears. Most do not accomplish so much in an entire lifetime.”

  
“Why…is that a problem?” Her voice has grown hushed. Even with his eyes so close to hers, just inches away on her pillow, she cannot interpret his expression.

  
“The problem,” Solas replies, ever the patient teacher, “is that you are only strong in _some_ areas. In others, you are frightfully vulnerable! You are young. You haven’t had the time to fortify yourself. You haven’t learned not to trust. You haven’t learned what to be wary of. In those areas, despite your remarkable feats, you are like a child.”

  
He lays his hand on the side of her face, caressing her cheek with his thumb. He sounds sorrowful now, misery bleeding through. When Lana looked in her mirror last night, nothing about her face seemed tragic. Solas nonetheless watches her as if tragedy is etched into her skin.

  
“Back in Haven,” he says softly, “I befriended you deliberately. It’s an art form that anyone can learn. Tailor your behavior a bit, stick to a story. You wanted tales and insights; I have both in abundance, polished and ready to entice you with. You were an elf, surrounded by humans. I played to that angle; I told you not to trust them so that I would be your only confidante. Even when you first flirted with me, I encouraged it.” His eyes widen slightly. “I did not even know whether I would be imprisoned. You, however, were indispensable to the shemlen. Favor with you was favor with them.”

  
“You risked your freedom to help us with the Breach,” Lana points out with feeling. “What’s wrong with wanting a little security? Besides, you changed your mind later. If you’d been manipulating me this entire time, you would never have pushed me away.”

  
“No,” he agrees.

  
He steals closer, pressing his lips to her forehead, resting his hand on her waist. The pitch black fur of his robe brushes against her chin, impossibly soft and warm. Then he draws back a fraction- but not so far that she can see his face.

  
“Oh,” he murmurs, seemingly in the grip of an odd impulse, “but on that note, I did _not_ risk my freedom to help. That was all a lie, vhenan, regrettable as it is. The elvhen orb Corypheus wields, that is what I am after. _I want it._ Joining the Inquisition was only the most likely path to obtaining it. Nothing else will suffice to help the People.”

  
Lana stares at his throat, wrapped as it is in black fur. “In that case,” she says slowly, “I’ll be sure to get it for you.”

  
“Will you?” A sharp laugh bursts from him. It’s a slightly unsettling sound. Lana tries to raise herself up to get a better look at him but he clutches her close. She feels his laughter vibrating in his chest, ragged with something like grief. “Thank you, Inquisitor,” he says softly into her hair, “I will be ever so grateful if you do.”

  
Lana lies still, her heart beating harshly in her chest. What is the meaning behind his tone of voice? She doubts even Josephine would know. Her body is pressed against him and wrapped in his arms. The collar of his robe covers her face, blotting out her vision. Nothing they say to each other matters. It was always going to end up like this the moment she said he could enter the room.

  
“If I get the orb,” she says in a muted voice, “will that help you, Solas?”

  
“Yes,” he tells her. His hand runs idly up her back and over her shoulder. He pets her upper arm.

  
“Then will you tell me why you’ve been so upset?” she presses. “Will you confide in me?”

  
“My heart, my beautiful one,” he says instead of answering, pushing her down and bending over her. His mouth covers her ear, pouring sweet talk into her head. No flattery is as fine and eloquent as his; paired with fervent adoration, it plucks at her like a poem. She shudders involuntarily, heat rising to color her cheeks. The room doesn’t feel so cold anymore- not when his knee has somehow ended up between her legs. The simple shift she sleeps in is much thinner than his robe. She feels his touches keenly.

  
“Solas,” she tries again, sagging a bit when he nuzzles at her neck. She can’t make her breathless voice steady. “I wasn’t done talking.”

  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes politely, one of his wandering hands now stroking her hip. “Please, say whatever you want, Inquisitor. I am listening attentively.” He kisses the underside of her jaw and then her neck, sucking lightly at her skin.

  
She exhales heavily, trembling. He’s impossible to deal with. This is impossible.

  
His deft fingers catch the ties at the neckline of her shift, pulling them undone. The movement is deft, like he’s done it a thousand times- sliding the shift from her shoulders until it bunches around her waist. She is bare underneath it; his kisses leave red marks down her heaving chest. He kneads and caresses her breast in his hand, twisting the peak until she’s gasping. She shifts beneath him, legs tangling with his and hips straining up against him. He closes his mouth around her nipple, licking and suckling to make her writhe.

  
All her frustration and bewilderment after the Oasis return to her in a flash. This is not a resolution…but it feels like one. Was she really chasing him for answers? Perhaps his touch was what she wanted all along. The truth hardly matters when your soul is purring like a cat, when you feel wanted and worthy and tantalized. Abandonment feels like rejection. Rejection feels like inadequacy. She never gives up on things because then she’ll be left clutching dust.

His willing return assuages her insecurities.

  
Logic slips like a broken bone, crunching on its own brittle edges. Emotions bend and snap taut like a bow. Her body knows only heated softness. If she was thinking clearly, she would sneer at herself and measure the mind games. Instead, Solas takes her thinking away from her. He was right; she’s a child. She’s a child and he can pluck her intentions right out of her hands.

  
She doesn’t think when he kisses her stomach. She doesn’t think when he sinks beneath the sheets and pins her thighs to the bed. He laves at the inside of her thigh, teeth scraping lightly the skin there. She’s used to hurt and hardship, not hedonism. The first touch of his tongue has her writhing in his grasp. She does not manage to move her hips an inch. His hands hold her too securely; even after the Oasis, she’d forgotten his strength. He spears her with his tongue. Technically, she knows that squirming won't get her anywhere. The jolt of her hips and the arch of her back, on the other hand, have become involuntarily. She ends up staring wildly up at her ceiling, dazed and breathless. She grabs at the sheets and bites her lower lip. Her heels flex, digging urgently into the mattress. She comes apart for him easily. The night is not cold anymore. In fact, she’s overheated. Strands of hair stick to her forehead.

  
He continues to lick into her. She fumbles to push him away, too sensitized. After a few, strangled whimpers on her part, he releases her. She turns over onto her side, panting into her pillow. The exchange lasted a minute but she feels as though she’s been sprinting through the Frostbacks. Solas pets her calves then the backs of her thighs, then her rump. There is a hitch in his breathing.

  
She’s coasting again. It’s an odd feeling, wrapped in sheets instead of sand. Can she strip her bed and hope news of this doesn’t filter its way to Leliana? Isn’t it better to do this sort of thing outside? Anyway, controversial bedroom techniques are for debauched Orlesian courts. Or Tevinter ones, judging from the way Bull boasts about Dorian. How does Solas even know something like this?

  
He learned it in the Fade?

  
She laughs at her joke somewhere in the back of her mind.

  
He has gone from petting her backside to kneading it. The interest he conveys through touch is not insignificant. She’s honestly beginning to suspect he has some sort of fixation.

  
Then he settles over her, pressing her down into the sheets. His magnificent fur robe has come open. The feel of his skin against her back makes her shudder.

  
“May I?” he inquires. The request is phrased courteously but he can‘t seem to catch his breath. His hand lingers needy on her hip, his knee once again nudging her legs apart.

  
“A moment,” she says heavily. “I need- a moment.” Her lips don’t want to move. Her nerves are still singing. He can blame his own silver tongue for it.

  
He hums in response and starts nuzzling at her neck, laying kisses along her spine. She stirs, shifting against the sheets. He presses back against her, hips rocking down and rubbing his shaft against her rear.

  
She catches his hand and brings it to her mouth. Wrapping her lips around the tips of his fingers gets an interesting response. If the last time taught her anything, it’s that she has to tease him. If she doesn’t make him lose control, he’ll drag this out all night. She presses her tongue to the pad of his forefinger. He makes a choked noise in her ear, grinding down again.

  
“Good now,” she tells him then sucks at his thumb.

  
Solas mutters a choked curse and shifts. She feels him press against her entrance, hard and urgent. She pushes up against him, shuddering. He takes her in a single stroke, entrance eased by his earlier efforts. Lana exhales in a gust, splayed flat over her bed. The pressure of him moving above and into her rocks her hips against the mattress. At this angle, the friction is stimulating. It’s an obscenely decadent experience.

  
She also thinks she might have this handled. Solas groans in her ear and his hips stutter. This is the way to keep him from stringing her along- tease him, clench around him at well-timed intervals, influence his pace. She can’t hold herself back; he works her up precisely until she’s muffling her cries in her pillow. Her legs flex and shove at the mattress. Every time she manages to push herself up however, he thrusts into her and back down she goes. Her body is rocked against the sheets which drag on her clit. She’s left wanton and mindless- but she’s got him this time. He’s just as wrecked.

  
She can feel the tension thrumming through him. She can track it in the urgency of his movements and his ragged breaths. Then he drags her up by the waist, kneeling on her bed, pulling her by the hips back onto him. She yelps, trying to get her knees under her, and makes fists in the sheets. Two thrusts later, she spasms around him and all her worldly problems melt. Who cares about anything? She feels wonderful.

  
Solas comes somewhere in that window of disconnected bliss. She loses track of it. What occurs to her next is his eyes when he slumps down beside her: they’re completely glazed over. He stares dizzily at her ceiling, his lips parted and his skin flushed. She finalizes her conclusion: Solas has a _preference_. If she needs to control him in bed, all she has to do is turn around.

  
She’s very satisfied with this information. At the moment, it feels like the key to the workings of the universe. She ends up grinning stupidly into her pillow, shifting and she’s- wow- a bit sore and- better- still shuddering with aftershocks.

  
Then her brain starts working again.

  
Sex between lovers is meant to somehow affirm that love. It’s the concrete to communicate the abstract- as she understands it, at least. Still, it should be said, skin pressing together does not nullify loneliness. The entrance to the soul is found between no one’s legs. What connection can really be forged between a wild flower and a mountain? This meant nothing. This has healed nothing. Solas disguised it as a resolution but it wasn't one. Beneath the surface, it’s raw and empty and hysterical.

  
That was the problem from the start: without illusions to gentle it, there’s nothing but pain. Even Solas’s forgiveness doesn’t add up. Explain? He explained nothing. Due to her desperation, she allowed that fact to escape her.

  
He was right to run from this love of theirs. She’s beginning to see it.

  
Never look at something for what it is. It’s okay to try. It’s okay to _pretend_ to try. To actually succeed, however, is madness. Comprehension destroys everything.

  
“You came here deliberately to seduce me,” she states, vocalizing the sudden revelation. She looks fiercely up at her ceiling. “That’s why you wore this. That’s why-”

  
“I coaxed my way into your bed on the pretense of reconciling, yes,” Solas finishes, turning his head to look at her. “My heart, you learn so quickly.” He takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “But not quickly enough.”

  
She closes her eyes, stung. So that’s what it was. He never meant to forgive her. He never meant to offer information. He appeared in her room for the same reason he followed her into the Oasis: _he couldn’t resist_. Beneath that bright wanting caused by loneliness and pain, he angers still. He’s hurt, bitter, sharp and closed off behind impenetrable walls. He won’t tell her anything. Nothing has changed.

  
She feels his mouth on her cheek; she covers her face with both hands. Her treacherous eyes are burning. “Argh.” The sounds come out hoarse. “And you think _more_ of the problem will help? I hurt you that night. That’s why I apologized. What’s your plan, your solution- if reconciling was a pretense?”

  
“It’s an irreconcilable situation,” Solas returns, “there is no solution.” His voice falls flat. “Still, if the egg’s already broken, I might as well have my omelet.”

  
He runs his fingers through her hair then over the blade of her ear. She doesn’t move her hands from her face. She exhales, trying to steel herself, trying to think. She’s overheated and aching, still tuned to his touch. She’s betrayed and hunted and denied understanding.

  
“Shh, it’s alright, vhenan,” he whispers. He watches her a moment. “Shall I leave you then?”

  
She swallows thickly. “No. Don’t leave.”

  
She lets her hands fall down to the bed beside her and stares up into his eyes. He’s only inches away but he has wrapped himself in distance. How much she cares about him doesn’t depend on how easy he is to help. This isn't about taking; she’d chase him over a cliff if she thought she could save him. She will beat him at his own games if that’s what it takes. So she tells him what she means.

  
“You wasted your time tricking me. You are always welcome here. You might as well steal something that’s already yours.”

  
Solas actually flinches.

  
She reaches up, seizing his jaw in her hand. Leaning up, she kisses him softly. If nothing else, he reminds her to be ruthless. She has to strike at the first sign of weakness. She does that now, pulling him close to her, hooking her ankle over his calf. She slips her tongue into his mouth and fills him with her breath. She lavishes his lower lip with attention.

  
A tension eases out of him, accompanied by a hollow exhalation. She’s certain it’s surrender. Her victory is empty however. Holding him in her arms, she can feel his pain. It contorts in on itself, tangled in strategy and deceit. It’s there in the way he desperately kisses her. It’s in the weight of his body covering hers.

  
She chases after his tongue, sliding hers against his inside his mouth. He draws back after a moment, looking away across the room. He won’t meet her eyes.

  
“I’m sorry,” he tells her vaguely, staring at nothing over the side of her bed. “I’m so sorry.”

  
“Shh,” she soothes, “it’s fine.”

  
“No…no, it is not,” he refutes. “I should not have come to you.”

  
“Rely on me.” She runs her hands over his chest and shoulders, fingers disappearing in black fur. “Depend on me. Trust me.”

  
His eyes flit back to her. Then his expression crumbles. For a split second, it looks like he is about to tell her everything. His lips part and his eyes plead for her help. Lana waits, holding her breath.

  
Then, “no.”

  
He withdraws, slipping off of the bed and standing. “No,” he repeats, pulling his robe tightly around himself, “even if you accepted it, you would not be able to help- and you _wouldn’t_ accept it. Look at you.” He casts his hand in her direction. “Even after I told you the Vallaslin is a slave brand, you wear it because it keeps you _Dalish_ -”

  
“It’s not a slave brand anymore, Solas!” Lana exclaims, also sitting up. She has to clutch her shift back around her when the freezing air hits her skin. “It’s fitting that my people wear it, to honor our sacrifices. Besides, you said you are fine with me the way I am.”

  
“The way _you_ are, certainly- but your people are something different.” He clenches his hands into fists, glaring harshly at the floor. “Why bother cherishing a culture that gets everything that ever happened wrong in its histories? Your legends are nonsense! You live in the woods! Why would you want to keep that? How does that meager existence give you _pride?_ ”

  
It stings even worse than his deception, mostly because Lana is beginning to suspect he is right. Abelas started her doubts and then, just a day ago, the remnants of Mythal herself ignited them. Mythal, the All-Mother and the Lady of Justice, had been murdered…and the Dalish completely forgot.

  
The Vallaslin was a slave marking and the Dalish forgot.

  
Tevinter did not destroy Arlathan and the Dalish forgot.

  
The writings in Mythal’s temple claim Ghilan’nain crafted monsters and it seems the Dalish have forgotten that too.

  
Lana’s people do not even _know_ the gods they worship.

  
“I wear shemlen clothes,” Lana says after a long, frozen moment. Her voice is barely audible. “I live in shemlen buildings. I represent a shemlen god and I weave myself through their politics. I might never return to my people again. But…” She draws a low breath. It is not her hopes and friendships that allow her to speak with resolute certainty. It is her exhaustion, her stark mortality and her suffering. “I will not lose myself. None of these disasters, none of this death and duty will take who I am from me. And, though I love you, neither will you.”

  
Solas walks away, quitting her bedside for the balcony. She watches him silently. He is not looking out at the mountains. He is standing with his face turned up toward the night sky, his hand clamped over his eyes. Everything from the exposed line of his throat to the plane of his back appears tortured.

  
“What if…” he breathes. Lana has to strain to hear him lest the night wind steal the words. “What if every terrible thing that has ever happened to you was my fault?”

  
She stares fiercely at his back as if his meaning could be written there. It’s hard to keep up. Her mind is quick but he keeps sending her heart reeling, lulling it into complacency only to dash it against a wall. She must struggle to focus.

  
“That’s a bit drastic, Solas,” she comments. She manages to sound reasonable but her voice remains hushed.

  
“Ah, you’re just not thinking on a large enough scale,” he chides. His voice too conceals his feelings. “Humor me with this one. Hypothetically. What if I _was_ to blame? What then?”

  
“To blame,” she repeats, “like for me surviving the Temple of Sacred Ashes and getting this mark on my hand?”

  
“Certainly,” Solas agrees easily, “for your mark. For the explosion and all the deaths that followed. For your people losing their homes and aging. For every hardship in your life thus far. What if?”

  
Lana takes a moment. “Some of those things… _are_ terrible crimes,” she says. “Thousands of people have died because of the Breach. Even now, the rifts kill people all over Thedas. Hypothetically, if you had caused such a thing, I would be horrified.” She draws a deep breath. “But I also know that you are meticulous. You are too intelligent to have done it on accident. And, because you are responsible and kind, I’m sure you would only ever have done it because it was absolutely necessary.” She shakes her head, exhaling in a gust. “Like, if you didn’t kill three thousand people here, twenty thousand people in Nevarra would die.”

  
“Nevarra! Why Nevarra?” He sounds fine. In the night however, the inky blackness of his robe covers his doubled over form. He clutches the rail of her balcony as if he is in physical pain.

  
“You said it was a hypothetical situation,” Lana responds evenly. She does not take her eyes off of him. She doesn't even blink. “Why _not_ Nevarra?”

  
“Why not destroy three thousand meat pies in Ferelden to save twenty thousand frilly cakes in Orlais?” Solas returns.

  
“I’d sacrifice three thousand rams if it destroyed twenty thousand bears.”

  
“Or trade three thousand prophet’s laurel for twenty thousand elf root?”

  
“Absolutely,” she nods. “A bargain is a bargain and that’s the end of it.”

  
He breaks down a bit, laughing faintly. Lana wonders if he isn’t crying.

  
She watches him from the bed, hesitating. It’s like bathing in the Oasis. She’s terrified that even one wrong word or one wrong movement will prompt him to leave. Still.

  
“Come back, ma sa’lath,” she urges. “Let me hold you.”

  
He remains on the balcony for some time. She’s certain that her entreaty will go ignored. Then slowly he turns. His gaze does not touch her but he comes back as summoned. She shifts back to make room for him, opening her arms to draw him in. She pulls the covers over them and embraces him in the dark. He presses his face into her shoulder, shuddering. She hushes him, smoothing her fingers over his head and ears, breathing calmly.

  
For some time, she simply hums a Dalish song about the clever Dread Wolf and his tricky escape from Andruil. She doesn’t expect that he knows it. In her arms, he relaxes, curls closer and sighs.

  
In minutes, he is asleep.

 

She finds him the next morning in the rotunda after waking alone. He is standing beside his desk, dressed once more in his unassuming traveler’s clothes. He looks up when she approaches, offering a sad and tentative smile.

  
She goes over to the desk, leaning her hip against it and crossing her arms. “So, last night,” she says, “you came in...from the _balcony_.”

  
“Yes, that is correct.”

  
“And none of Leliana’s people saw you…scaling the walls?” She tilts her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “I spoke to the security detail before coming down. They didn’t see or hear anyone. I might have to actually admit that Leliana isn’t omniscient.”

  
“I’ve stolen far lesser treasures,” he says, a secretive glint sparking in his eyes, “from far better-guarded towers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long, long wait. I wrote nearly the entire chapter, got the characterizations perfect and then got hung up on the sex. After writing about power games, trickery and the mind, aren't descriptions of who licked what unspeakably boring? Just a thought. -.-; Also, it seems like I hate this pairing except during a brief window between ten and twelve at night. *getting fickle*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter contains a small amount of horror and quite a bit of psychological horror.

She keeps her promise. That’s perhaps the saddest thing.

  
When the Inquisitor goes to fight Corypheus, she has a specific mindset. Her priorities are laid out. Her objective is crystal clear. She will destroy him and in so doing, remove the threat to Thedas. She feels obliged to do it, even if the responsibility all but fell upon her shoulders. No matter how audacious, she accepted this mantle- as if one elf from the woods could be Keeper to all the peoples of the world.

  
She does not hesitate.

  
One frantic hour later, however, she is tearing the orb out of Corypheus’s hand. The magister himself is on the brink of defeat, a last surge of mad power encasing him. Lana holds the resonating orb; that’s when its significance strikes her. This artifact is not just a threat. It is not just an advantage to be snatched from claw to claw. It is chaos and destruction and promise. It is the key to a terrible secret.

  
Within a split second, Ellana perceives the orb not as raw fuel for magic- but as the cure for the poison in her lover’s soul. Is this not the prize that Solas desires? Is this not his purpose and his aim? His words twist in her memory, clinging like condensation to the artifact’s surface. She covets his trust and so she covets the orb. She craves to save him and so the orb in turn becomes an invaluable thing.

  
Corypheus jumps on her hesitation, flailing out with raw, desperate magic. Lana tumbles to the ground, her weapon thrown from her grasp. She cleaves to the orb however, cradling it against her chest as she wildly finds her feet. There are burns down her side and blood dripping from her temple. Someone is sending a storm of electricity at the magister, filling the air with sparks. Lana’s eyes fall on Cassandra’s sword, lying on the ground. She snatches it up.

  
Everything is painted green in this moment. The Breach gapes up above, two worlds colliding as the sky itself fractures. Her emotions seem to take on tangible form, thickening the Fade-touched air. There is fury, defiance and will. There is also temptation and selfishness. Lana’s strengths sustain her but she is led astray by her vulnerabilities. She wants too dearly. Wading through fire and lightning is sweeter than relinquishing the prize she holds. She does not consider the world. Instead, she goes for Corypheus like a creature gone mad. She drives Cassandra’s blade through his heart.

  
Corruption and fire scorch her, blackening the stone in a wide circle. The magister writhes, eyes burning with the Taint. Perhaps, in his final moments, he attempts to revive himself one last time. Without his dragon however, there is no available chassis for his soul. His violent magic dwindles, red and black melting away into green.

  
Everything melts into green.

  
Lana’s skin is stretched tight over her bones, bloody and blistered from Corypheus’s corrupted fire. She is swathed in pain, each pull of her lungs casting prickling rains of agony through her chest. She feels the Anchor like a thread that connects the orb to her palm, then to her heart. Magic runs through this channel within her, raw and horridly deep. She feels giddy. Nothing really enters her brain except for the fact that she _has it_. Solas will trust her now.

  
“Try not to move.”

  
His voice comes softly, clean and gentle magic whispering up around her. His hands hover over hers. It takes her a moment to realize that Solas is healing her. It takes a moment more for her to notice she is kneeling on the ground. The mountain floats still, suspended beneath a maelstrom of green light. The orb shudders and vibrates in her left hand. Her right hand is melted to the hilt of Cassandra’s sword.

  
“The orb is unstable,” Solas explains, still quiet and calm. “It remains whole because your control of it is steady. After Corypheus’s inept direction, it could all too easily shatter. Remain still and, in a moment, I will be able to take it from you. Then we may close the Breach.”

  
She tries to speak but her lips are blistered and waxy. The pain is somewhere else. The channel of magic running from the ancient focus to her soul is her foremost feeling. Solas’s magic heals and soothes her. The sensations of her body drift farther away. The magic, conversely, expands. It webs its way through her being like veins. Then it spills out into her surroundings. With the sky ripped open, the conditions of the world are highly ideal. Power clings to each particle of dust and each fragment of stone conducts it.

  
“Finished,” says Solas. The green of the sky is Triumph.

  
Lana’s vision comes into focus, sharpening beyond personified emotion and color. Solas is kneeling directly before her, vivid as lightning. He is more himself than she has ever seen him. The essence of his magic is vast, circling her and engulfing the area. The Fade welcomes and embraces him with the love of a long lost friend. His dark, clawed hands close gently over hers, freeing her right from the sword and bringing it to cradle the orb. Carefully, he lifts her hands and the foci within them.

  
“Concentrate, vhenan,” he bids her, six eyes narrowing. “Knit the Veil back together with me. For now, the world must remain broken.”

  
The power does not erupt. In fact, it spills out gently- like water being poured from a cup. The magic is fluid, streaming up into the sky. It conserves itself, minimizing energy loss by drawing on the Fade’s energy around it. The efficiency is exquisite. As the Breach wanes and closes, Lana wonders how she ever thought Corypheus was dangerous at all.

  
The magister flailed like a child wielding an adult’s weapon.

  
With the greenness of the world dwindling, Lana can concentrate. She sees Cassandra and Bull collapsed on the ground some ways away. The floating mountain looks to be slowly descending.

  
“You said you would give it to me.” Solas’s quiet voice makes her eyes snap back to him. Threads of the Fade still cling to his shoulders, tracing his shadowy shape. His expression however is clear, gentle. He looks his normal self now. He leans forward a fraction. “Is that still your intent?”

  
“Yes, ma sa’lath,” Lana tells him, her voice rasping a bit. She coughs, clearing blood from her throat. The pain is mostly gone now. Her armor is ruined; she’ll need Harritt to make her another set. “Take it.”

  
“Very well.” Solas puts his own hands over the orb and Lana wearily allows hers to fall. He studies the focus with a calculating gaze. “Your advisors will never allow this. An object of such power in the hands of an apostate? No. We must tell them that it shattered. Do you understand, vhenan? You must tell them that the orb fractured in your hands.”

  
“You’re right,” she agrees, seeing his point. If Cassandra was conscious right now, she’d make that disapproving scowl. Were Vivienne here, she’d have a fit. Even Cullen and Leliana are not likely to quietly accept such an action.

  
“I’ll just put the orb somewhere safe then,” says Solas as Lana begins to push herself to her feet. “It is still in a fragile condition. It will stabilize more quickly if it is surrounded by sympathetic energies.”

  
“Mm-hm,” she nods, trying to peel away a scorched and melted pauldron. She cannot actually move with it bent into her arm. She needs to put herself together and go check on the warriors. She still has plenty of healing potions left on her belt. Hopefully, they escaped damage from the lyrium fires. She frees herself of the pauldron and it clatters to the ground.

  
Then, in the corner of her eye, she sees Solas open his mouth and swallow the orb whole.

  
The orb is, of course, much bigger than Solas’s mouth. Generally speaking, it is bigger than his entire head. What Lana thinks she saw is the mage’s jaw expand and stretch, molding over the glowing green focus. It is a nightmarish sight, made more so by its unceremonious simplicity. One second, Solas’s face is warped and gruesomely stretched. The next, he is normal. He looks at her as though he has done nothing more unsettling than tucking a pebble into his pocket. As for the orb, it is gone. She cannot so much as see green light glowing from beneath his skin.

  
She returns his gaze motionlessly. She’s petrified.

  
“Inquisitor!” Cassandra’s voice calls raggedly. “Are you alright?”

  
The Seeker approaches them, limping heavily. Bull is behind her, nursing a series of scorch marks down his side.

  
“It seems we are victorious,” Cassandra continues, her words swelling with relief. “The magister is dead and the Breach closed. What became of the orb?”

  
Solas does not shift his gaze from Lana. He simply waits.

  
Lana forces herself to look away. She forces herself to breathe. Even with the mountain descending gently to the ground, she feels as though she is falling. She understands nothing. She does not know if she has won or if she has made a fatal mistake.

  
Either way, it is probably too late now.

  
“The orb disintegrated,” Lana answers, glancing over at Corypheus’s corpse. “Corypheus had already used up most of its power. There was just enough left to help me close the Breach.”

  
“That’s for the best, I should think,” Cassandra says with satisfaction. “The world is far better off without it.”

  
A subtle change comes over Solas’s face, the scarcest softening of his eyes. The poised tension of his body ebbs. Instead of feeling relieved, Lana wonders. What would he have done had she told the truth? If he is relaxed now, what had his tension been for?

  
Had he been preparing to attack them?

  
The hurt of that idea cuts at her brain. Bull and Solas are professional with each other. At the same time, Lana knows they are both ready to kill the other should the situation demand it. Cassandra, however, shares a deep respect with Solas. Would he cut her down so easily?

  
And then there’s Lana whom he claims to cherish. She has seen too much pain in his eyes to ever doubt it. If he would consider attacking her then it is all about priorities. Whatever he wants the orb for must be more important to him than anything.

  
Lana is able to reason her way through this one. It’s painful but she is a logical person. She can track the method in Solas’s choices. She’s still stuck on him swallowing the orb though. Nothing in her brain allows her to make sense of _that_. It’s just a horror- more unsettling and upsetting than tainted lyrium.

  
Corypheus’s work created loud, obvious distortions. Solas persuades Lana to doubt her own eyes. It was strange; then it was over. There are no reactions. There are no consequences. It is a splinter in the otherwise natural flow of events. He masterfully takes advantage of subtlety to paint his deviation as trivial. She can almost hear him coaxing her, tenderly,

  
_“It didn’t happen, my heart. You were tired and frightened and hurt. You saw reflections of the Fade. Nothing more.”_

  
The mask of normalcy he now wears is almost as insidious as his secrets.

  
Then there is an impact and a crunching noise. The mountain settles back onto the ground. Cassandra catches Lana’s arm to steady her. She smiles wanly in thanks. She cannot deal with this now. She has to regroup her forces. She has to do it with melted armor and shaking, exhausted limbs. She turns her head toward the mountain path. If she keeps Solas in the corner of her eye, perhaps the threat he poses too will remain distanced. She won’t look directly at him though.

  
All she would see is the blatant intent to manipulate her- and danger.

  
  
o0O0o

 

A person’s heart and mind often put forth conflicting suggestions. In Ellana, this conflict is frequently so pronounced as to be called a war. She is on logic’s side, waving its banner on a pike of ice. When her heart recoils from the sight of children’s corpses on the roadside, her brain reminds her that horror will not bring them back. When her heart leads her to fret over past decisions, her mind points out her limited time, limited emotional energy and still urgent goals. In short, to survive the weight of leadership, Lana has all but crushed her heart beneath her boot heel.

  
She compartmentalizes her softer feelings out, purging herself of weakness. Her consciousness is separated into boxes. The part of her that suffers is shut in the room next door. No matter how it rages, shrieks and weeps, she pays it no mind. She doesn’t have time to feel her own pain. She thinks about her strategies. She finds another book to read.

  
Friendship and love are not weaknesses she’s thought to get rid of, however. Her life thus far has never forced her to. Instead, they are her greatest indulgences. They are her sanctuary, her motivation and her happiness. As Solas said, she’s young. She should have known better. Strength and happiness are mutually exclusive. To be truly effective, a leader cannot allow such a vulnerability. They must learn to thrive on less palatable forms of sustenance.

  
Because of the Inquisitor’s mistake, she finds herself now in a terrible position. This is checkmate on a chessboard she didn’t know was there. Trust and love and friendship are nothing more than power plays against her. Her mind tells her, “this is a dire problem, here’s why.”

  
Her heart, escaping through cracks in her defenses, tells her, “relax.”

  
Josephine’s hastily thrown together after party finds Ellana in a remote state of mind. She wanders through the diverse crowd of Orlesian courtiers and Inquisition personnel. No one seems to remember social tiers tonight. They drink together, they embrace each other and they laugh freely in relief. The sky above is moonless and black. The candles and lanterns of Skyhold radiate warmth.

  
Within the giddy celebration, Lana has to fake joy and force smiles. She has too many thoughts in her head. She’s distantly uneasy. The people praising her now are the very ones she may have endangered with her gross carelessness.

  
Solas is an unknown quantity. That’s the truth of it. She feels as though she understands him- his compassion and his responsibility- but she knows better. She has only a fraction of the vast puzzle. No matter how much she loves him, no matter how _brainlessly smitten_ with him she is, how could she just hand over an artifact of that power? Before he confided in her even? She should have waited to learn exactly what he planned to do with it first.

  
Perhaps the people gathered, bowing and cheering all around her, should spit in her face instead.

  
Lana grasps after logic and tries to think of what she might do. She draws a blank. She knows so little that she cannot even predict what Solas will tell her- much less what the consequences of her choice might be. She knows nothing. She sees nothing but this party. Has anything changed? Couldn’t it all be her paranoia, in the end?

  
“I didn’t _imagine_ him swallowing the orb,” Lana murmurs to herself in a brief window of solitude. She stares at a sconce on the wall. “I’ve been exhausted and injured a dozen times this year; it’s never caused me to hallucinate. Still…”

  
Still, it is not impossible for mages to change their shape. Morrigan, for example, turned into a dragon that very night. What sort of talent is it to be able to distort single parts of one’s body? An ancient one? A lost one?

  
Surely then, it’s not so odd. Solas, of all people, would know strange brands of magic.

  
“Hmm,” Lana exhales. Then she turns and exchanges pleasantries with a beaming, distinctly intoxicated Antivan dignitary.

  
If she has indeed made a mistake, it is too late to reverse it. A leader’s next recourse is to minimize damage. To do that, she must acquire more information. She makes her way through Skyhold’s main hall, pressing on until she catches sight of Solas.

  
For quite some time, Lana lingers in the apostate’s vicinity. She chats warmly with Dorian, keeping Solas in the corner of her eye. From what she can tell, Solas is in high spirits and drinking large quantities of wine. He’s sitting next to Varric, an appealing languidness in his posture. The way he lounges in his chair, one leg bent and tucked beneath the other, draws the eye. He keeps laughing richly at what the dwarf says, his melodic voice caressing the room. It’s like his manner during the masquerade in Halamshiral- only less restrained.

  
Lana watches him carefully. Then she watches people watching him. His shift in demeanor transforms him from unimportant scholar to eye-catching point of interest. Within this chaotic celebration, mages, courtiers and Inquisition alike keep shooting him curious looks. It’s as though his humble persona has washed right off. She knows the reason instantly.

  
Why should Solas bother pretending now that he has what he wants? That’s what this is. That’s the sense she gets from him: _why bother?_

  
His backstory was only ever part of his mask. Most of it was his muted demeanor. He’s not humbling himself now though. Words exchanged between them drift through her brain like phantoms. _I’d forgotten how much I missed court intrigue._

  
_When have_ you _been at court?_

  
She sees it now, more and more as she studies him. There is a haughtiness there, a refinement that a village-born hermit just never could possess. He carries himself with more pride than the Orlesian gentry but his pride is sharpened by skill. There’s a deadliness to him. His merry mood is dangerous at the edges.

  
A banal thought comes unwillingly into Lana’s head then- how beautiful he is. If she had his talent for art, she would paint him. Instead, she clings to her worries. Unease saves her from becoming transfixed.

  
Only once she is bolstered by her observations does she approach.

  
“Inquisitor,” Solas hails her, spreading his hands wide and rising to his feet. Varric also looks up, grinning widely over ale and a notebook. Lana spots Cole sitting on the other side of the table.

  
“So our savior comes to greet us,” Solas continues and his speech is slightly too archaic, slightly too grand. He raises his glass to her. “A true hero of the People, to be commemorated in our creations and honored forevermore! Take pride, falon’vhen, for you shall _never_ be forgotten.”

  
“Chuckles is a bit drunk,” Varric offers by way of explanation.

  
To that, Solas laughs freely and presses some wine into Lana’s hands. She drinks, preferring to be a bit drunk herself, and lets him usher her courteously into the seat beside his.

  
From the looks of this small group, Varric is passing up his meal largely in favor of writing. Cole is passing up the food to stare eerily at passersby. Solas is passing up entrees for frilly cakes, petit-fours and short breads. Once he has Lana ensconced at his side, however, her fixes her with his full attention. His gaze is vividly warm. It’s like being suddenly engulfed in the heat of high summer.

  
She thinks she might even taste fresh cherries and hear the buzz of cicadas.

  
“Well, we all made it out alive,” she says to them, hiding her troubles in her goblet. She even manages to sound sensible. She’s never noticed just how dishonest her mild voice is.

  
“Sort of anticlimactic, isn’t it?” Varric chuckles, dipping his quill into a pot of ink. “With a premise like this, you tend to expect three or four tragic deaths. Martyrs add poignancy, you know.”

  
“ _Corypheus_ was anticlimactic,” Lana argues- as if recent events are a narrative that two literati can debate. “He made a mess of the world so we fixed it. Then we beat him at every turn. It’s not exactly apocalypse material.”

  
“A clean victory is the product of efficiency and skill,” Solas points out, voice as smooth as silk. His fingers have somehow wound up threaded through hers under the table. “It shows how well your merits surpassed those of your opponent.”

  
Varric makes a contemplative sound under his breath. “The Inquisitor does have a point though,” he says regretfully. “Usually a good plot needs a bit more back and forth, mix the triumphs in with some losses, wrack up the suspense. That’s part of why The Tale of the Champion sold so many copies…I’ll try to work that angle in my next book.”

  
“Can you add a part about the birds?” Cole asks, fixing Varric with an earnest expression.

  
Varric blinks. “The…crows in the rookery?”

  
Cole starts to explain the many virtues of carrier crows. Varric’s brow furrows but he nods, taking the time to listen. Of her friends, the dwarf is perhaps the most accepting. He sees people without preconceptions then transcribes their personality onto a page. He allows Cole to define himself through actions and words- and thus Cole is ‘Kid,’ rather than ‘Demon.’ With his attention diverted however, Lana seizes her chance. She turns to Solas.

  
“How old are you, my one love?” she asks him, switching languages to keep their discussion private. Recently, she has begun to speak somewhat like Solas does, archaic and overly lyrical. He’s the only person here who knows the language. If she’s speaking it, she’s speaking to him. Were Keeper Deshanna to hear it though, she’d probably whack Ellana over the head with her staff.

  
“That isn’t a very polite question,” Solas demurs in response, playfulness hidden in his secretive eyes. He does not seem daunted by her sudden interrogation at all. He acts as though it is only natural for her to engage him, for her to fix him with her full attention. As she has created privacy by speaking in elvhen, he creates intimacy with his body language. He drapes one of his arms over the back of her chair. He sits sideways in his, facing her, his leg brushing hers beneath the table. “What if I am insecure about my age?”

  
Lana wonders if he’ll try to talk her in circles all night. He is drinking however. He has let things slip before while drinking. She has to chase this line of inquiry while she still has a chance. “It just seems like there’s a limit to how much someone can learn in the Fade.”

  
“It might seem that way,” Solas allows easily, “but you forget that the Fade itself is limitless. So long as one continues to experience new things, the Fade continues to present new opportunities for learning.”

  
He deflects her so effortlessly. She steels herself, refusing defeat. “When we fought Corypheus, you changed the shape of your face. I don’t think even Morrigan knows how to do that.”

  
“ _My_ abilities,” he explains, humble tone satirizing modesty, “are rather more sophisticated than Morrigan’s. Although,” he amends, “it should be noted that her talents are remarkable for someone her age.”

  
Lana jumps on the opening. “So how old does one have to be to attain sophistication?”

  
“Why?” he deflects deftly again. “Are you planning to learn the discipline yourself? I’d be happy to help you, vhenan. You’d look enchanting with feathers. Or with halla horns, perhaps.”

  
She knows right then that she won’t be getting a scrap of information out of him. Not until he’s consumed several more bottles of wine anyhow. Meanwhile, there’s something of a gleam in Solas’s eyes. Is he actually imagining her with feathers and horns?

  
She flushes a bit, strangely flustered, and sips more of her drink. “Not likely.”

  
Solas reaches out, caressing her cheek with his knuckles. She can’t help but notice the way his gaze lingers on her mouth. The trajectory of the evening is all but decided. They won this long campaign against Corypheus. The Inquisition is triumphant. It’s an unspoken expectation that lovers should retire and celebrate together. Dorian and Bull are at it already if their absence now is any guess.

  
It’s tempting. Solas is probably trying to lead her down that line of thought. If only she’ll forget about the orb, he’ll praise her and please her and hold her again. He’ll call her his heart. He’ll hide that strange way he mourns her while she’s still alive.

  
Her unease will not leave her mind- or perhaps she clings to it. Her emotions are more often a hindrance to her, especially when they attempt to lull her into complacency. She isn’t wrong about this. Solas’s inexplicable abilities are a concern. She can’t ignore this matter and she must get information quickly! Creators, truly, she isn’t wrong about this. Does he have to look at her so disarmingly, feigning innocence?

  
“You look tired, vhenan,” Solas observes, soft voice carrying beneath the hall’s din of chatter. “Have you had your fill of the party? I should take you to bed.”

  
The words are persuasive. She can almost feel them pulling at her like little strings. Would it be alright to go along with them? He wouldn’t misuse the power she has entrusted to him. He wouldn’t lead her into a trap. Since quite some time ago, she has been consumed with the thought of easing his pain.

  
Imperceptibly almost, Lana recognizes her loss of control. Like sink sand, uncertainty offers her no handholds. Once more, she sees them kneeling together around the orb but in her mind’s eye, the orb is her bloodied, beating heart. She hands it to Solas. He eats it.

  
She has no idea what she’s doing anymore.

  
“My lady Inquisitor,” a slurred, emotional voice interjects in Common, jarring her out of Solas’s thrall. “Do you have a moment?”

  
Lana turns her head, quickly taking in the smiling Orlesian politician. Her keen eyes pick out his house sigil embroidered on his doublet. She matches it to her knowledge of Orlesian nobility, then to his post, then to his name. Her shift into a diplomatic mindset is a reflex.

  
“Duke de Freyen,” she replies smoothly, extracting herself from Solas enough to turn in her seat. “Of course. On behalf of the Inquisition, please allow me to extend my thanks for joining us tonight. Nothing means more than the opportunity to celebrate this auspicious day with our allies.”

  
“Likewise, your worship,” de Freyen says with feeling, giving a bow. “Blessings of the Maker upon you. You have proven yourself as Herald, my lady. Only Andraste’s love for you could vanquish the evil creature, Corypheus.”

  
Lana thinks they should probably thank Mythal’s whimsy, not Andraste’s love, but she only smiles. “I hope we can all work together for a future of-”

  
At that moment, Solas’s long fingers curl around her jaw and turn her head firmly back toward him. Her words of diplomacy die before they can leave her tongue, smothered by the sudden press of his mouth. She’s so startled that she freezes, staring at the line of his cheek. His lips are demanding, almost imperious as they ply hers. His tongue easily breaches her slack jaw, taking her mouth and delving deep.

  
“My word!” the Orlesian exclaims, taken aback.

  
“Ah, mm, Solas-” Lana stammers, retreating an inch.

  
He tugs her easily back with his grip on her jaw and kisses her again. It’s fierce and heady like when she kissed him in Haven. She felt cocky enough to do it because he’d laughed at her wit and pretended to be her ally. That was in the Fade, however, lost in the memory of a village destroyed. That was a dream sculpted by impulses that neither of them may have acted on awake. Solas and Lana are both calculating people, acutely aware of cause and effect, action and consequence. They don’t take frivolous risks with potentially weighty repercussions.

  
This is mortifying. His grip is a vise on her jaw, holding her securely. In those sparse seconds, Lana thinks to maybe give Solas a nip. Would that bring him back to his senses? Something stops her however. Her heart says it’s sentiment. Her brain says she simply doesn’t dare.

  
Luckily, there’s Varric.

  
“Duke,” the dwarf smoothly interjects, stepping in to save international relations everywhere. He slings an arm around Duke de Freyen’s shoulders, forcing the nobleman to stoop. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I’ve been meaning to tell you about my next book. Let’s go over there and talk about it. I’m sure the Inquisitor will forgive us.”

  
“Oh, Master Tethras, quite, I suppose that would be…”

  
Solas releases Lana then, gaze flitting analytically to her swollen mouth. She gapes at him with a look of betrayal. She half expects Josephine to appear out of the crowd and murder her; this is a diplomatic nightmare. Solas returns her wide-eyed stare long enough to convey a complete lack of remorse. Then he turns wordlessly away and pours them both some more wine.

  
Lana’s eyes flit across the table to Cole who is now looking back at her.

  
“You have precious little time,” the spirit explains, face twisting with frustration, “so how can you give the quicklings a second of it? He wants it _all_ , all you have left. But he can’t have even that.”

  
“Thank you, Cole,” Solas says coolly. “I believe I can choose for myself what to communicate.”

  
_“Tell her,”_ Cole entreats him. “She’ll be upset at first- but then she’ll understand!” The spirits eyes burn with feeling. “You can find a way.”

  
Solas glances at him then drains his cup of wine. Lana rubs a hand over her eyes, exhaling. She has to calm her own edginess, the knee-jerk panic that casts her brain through a storm of possible political outcomes. No one is going to care on a night like this. Everyone is drunk. Everyone is giddy with triumph. The worst that will happen is one more rumor and, after all, aren’t there plenty of rumors already?

  
Lana may have, for instance, been swooning melodramatically into Dorian’s arms for months every time Mother Giselle walked by. And Dorian has been quoting passages from Varric’s cheesier novels at her until neither of them can keep a straight face. When people don’t think she’s madly in love with a ‘deplorable magister,’ they think she’s with Commander Cullen or Blackwall or even Sera. She’s even heard gossips pairing her simultaneously with an Antivan assassin and a Rivaini pirate she’s never met.

  
This, by comparison, is a trifle. Even the Orlesians won’t care about the Inquisitor kissing her ‘elven serving man.’ She mustn’t allow herself to be distracted. Only two things actually matter right now: Solas’s secrets and the orb.

  
“I’m finished,” she informs Solas, standing up, “let’s go.”

  
She takes her wine with her as she quits the table. It goes without saying that she needs to be intoxicated. Solas will not lower his defenses if Lana in turn does not seem relaxed. She’ll throw a bunch of seemingly whimsical prompts at him and gradually narrow it down to her true goal. Whatever happens, these secrets between them must end.

  
She filters through the crowd, trying to draw as little notice as possible. She ducks her head as she passes officials and keeps her left hand clamped around her goblet. It’s always the Vallaslin and the Anchor that give her away. This time, no one intercepts her. Perhaps it is too late at night and the party has gained too much momentum. She makes a beeline for a servant’s passage and disappears down the dim, stone corridor. A moment later, she hears Solas’s footsteps behind her.

  
Instead of heading for her quarters, she leads him deeper into Skyhold. She’s choosing the battleground carefully. If they aren’t talking anywhere near a bed, he has less maneuverability with which to distract her. As they get away from the main hall, away from the kitchens, away from the wine cellar, the corridors become deserted. Every step echoes quietly, lit sconces growing sparser along the walls. Lana comes to a halt.

  
“Ir abelas,” Solas says to her back, several paces away down the hall. The remorse that was missing before is now in his voice. He sounds pensive. “That was untoward of me. We’ve been aiming for this day. Even so, our victory somehow seems sudden. I confess, it has left me…unbalanced. Can you forgive me, vhenan?”

  
She glances back at him, pulled by his troubled eyes. “Always,” she says.

  
He grimaces, looking down and away. Then an idea seems to take him, filling him with life once more. He closes the distance between them, smiling warmly as he takes her free hand. “You have aided me beyond measure. It’s only right for me to bestow a gift in return. What reward could convey my gratitude? Have you a boon I may grant?”

  
Lana meets his gaze directly. “I want you to confide in me.”

  
“And so I shall,” Solas says at once, dipping his head. “You deserve to know regardless. But that is a discussion for later…tomorrow perhaps. Tonight, we are triumphant. Your advisors were correct to allot time for celebration.”

  
She rummages through concerns in her head, wondering if she can cast any of them in a celebratory light. The problem is the only thing she wants is to _know_. That is the defining problem of her life. The more pertinent the information seems, the more desperately she desires it. She takes a deep drink of her wine, drawing on all her willpower to relax.

  
“Could you show me what you did before then?” she asks him, breath stuck in her throat. “How you shape shift?”

  
The words almost shatter her composure. What if he refuses? Or worse, what if he accepts and warps his face like that again? Lana doesn’t know any elves who can match the things she’s seen him do. He has to be something more, something strange and lost and beyond its window of existence. Who he is will always be more important to Lana than what. At the same time, she would be a fool to discount _anyone’s_ nature.

  
She loves dragons but she also expects them to attack her. She loves Solas but that doesn’t necessarily mean he poses no danger to her, the Inquisition or the people of Thedas. If his secrets were wholesome, sympathetic things, he wouldn’t be so reluctant to share them.

  
Solas watches her, thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand. He says, “have you a particular request?”

  
Lana casts about for a moment, daunted by this blank check. Finally she mutters, “…feathers, you said?”

  
He releases her hand and stretches his arm out in front of her. He pulls back his sleeve. She stares at his freckled skin from long-fingered hand to pronounced wrist to lithely muscled forearm. Without flash or ceremony, dark feathers sprout from his flesh. His fingernails shift into cruel talons. Glossy, black feathers cover his arm from hand to elbow, blotting out his skin in seconds.

  
Bewitched, Lana reaches out to touch his transformed hand. The little scales on his fingers and palm are like a bird’s. The feathers are fine enough to be found on an enchanter’s cloak. Their color looks darker against her skin- as if they suck in the light around them.

  
Solas laces his fingers with hers, talons scratching against the back of her hand. Then the feathers shift fluidly into hard, gleaming scales like those of a dragon’s. She feels them change against her grip. The natural armor is the same black color of the feathers. Then it shifts once more into silky, black fur. It looks exactly like the fur of the robe he’d worn when he visited her room.

  
Solas tilts his head slightly, studying her entranced expression. “Impressed?”

  
“Yes,” she manages to say, as speechless as the display has left her. Pleasure shines in Solas’s eyes, luring him in closer. “Are you using the orb to do this?”

  
He laughs, again that rich and unfettered sound that sends shivers down her spine. “For this little parlor trick? No.”

  
The fur melts away and becomes a normal elven arm once more. He brings their entwined fingers to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

  
“The only difference between mass and energy,” says Solas, “is its form. That’s why mages are able to harness power in blood. Life has more magic in it than, for instance, a rock or the air. At the same time, if you can perceive your body as the energy it is, its shape becomes malleable.”

  
“Can you turn into animals like Morrigan does?” Lana asks next.

  
He repeats himself, “have you a particular request?”

  
Lana knows very little about shape shifting. Still, she was under the impression that a shape shifting mage is limited to the forms of animals they feel an affinity for. Is he implying that he can turn into any animal she might possibly name? She searches his warm eyes. “What shapes do you know?”

  
“Many,” Solas assures her at once. He brings their hands to rest against his heart. With his free hand, he runs his fingers covetously through her hair. “Inconspicuous forms with which to deceive my enemies. Winged forms to cover distance more quickly. Finned forms with which to delve into the ocean. Powerful forms with which to move mountains.”

  
“Like what, Solas?” Lana presses. “What forms can you take?” She can tell he enjoys her awe. Instead of restraining it, she projects every bit of amazement she can. It’s a time old trick, get a male to boast for his lady love- but Solas is drunk and displaced and wrapped around her finger. He doesn't notice. He leans close, set on charming her. He illustrates his abilities in nigh hypnotic words.

  
“I can turn into a raven and whisper secrets in the ears of lords. I can become a fox or a lynx in order to go overlooked. I can take on the shapes of serpents or sharks or deer. I know how to imitate artificial creatures such as halla and griffins. I can be a horse, a hawk, a wyvern. An elf, of course, to walk among the People and in the Fade, I can disguise myself as many types of spirits.”

  
Lana stares at him, keeping her expression transfixed. Within, she is frozen for an entirely different reason. He just said he knows how to turn into _an elf_. She feels like her heart has fallen into her gut.

  
Still, this is the slip-up she has been waiting for.

  
He has already confessed to using a persona, to charming her and the Inquisition for the sake of obtaining the orb. Now, as a shape shifter, he seems to imply that even his physical form is a disguise. He can turn into an elf. _What is his natural shape then if not that of an elf?_

  
“That’s…that’s amazing,” is all she says.

  
Solas’s gaze catches on her mouth, sharpening. He draws back a fraction, eyes turning wide. “Ah,” he exhales, laughing once in chagrin. “I see what you are doing. And here I let myself think I could stay one step ahead. You don’t play fairly, vhenan’ara. Exploiting my infatuation and seducing information out of me? Your ancestors would approve.”

  
“You said yourself that I’m a quick learner,” she points out, voice rasping a bit.

  
Solas’s eyes turn half-lidded. He’s doubtlessly remembering the context of her learning. “And so you are,” he agrees.

  
His eyes flit down her body and for a second, she thinks they might end up trysting in a broom closet next. Then his face lights for a second time that evening. He plucks her wine goblet out of her hands and sets it down on the floor.

  
_“Of course_ ,” he says in revelation, “I know what to reward you with now. If my heart desires anything, she desires books. You covet knowledge of all sorts. I will gift you with more books than you’ll ever have time enough to read!” Then, without warning, he scoops her up into his arms and carries her off down the hall.

  
She startles, flailing a bit to secure her arm around his shoulder. “Books? You have a cache of books here at Skyhold? Where are we going?”

  
Lana has walked this fortress more times than she can count. The larger portion of her life was spent living in a Dalish clan. She cannot settle down anywhere without mapping it out. To her, Skyhold is nothing but an outcrop of rock, a cave to delve into, a ruin to explore. She is not comfortable here within its walls- but she knows it well.

  
That’s why, when she realizes she’s never seen the part of the keep they’re walking through, she starts to panic.

  
“Solas- Solas, where,” she writhes in his arms, craning her neck to look up at the shadowed corridor. The ceiling looks different here, arching subtly into darkness. The stone work is more delicate. “Solas, put me down.”

  
“Hush, now,” he soothes her, “have patience. It is just around the corner here.” He holds her securely, again with that unsettling strength.

  
Her eyes adjust enough to pick out the marks of elvhen architecture, even without the light of torches. She sucks in a ragged breath. “Creators, there’s- elvhen ruins beneath Skyhold? How did I never…?”

  
“Not exactly,” Solas tells her gently, as ever like a professor teaching a class. “Tarasyl’an Te’las was created by the ancient elves. In order to make it more defensible, they bound their spirit allies into the fortress. In short, the keep is conscious to a certain degree. It changes its outward appearance to blend in with modern times. Certain passages inside remain hidden to newcomers.”

  
“You said you didn’t know who the original owners were,” says Lana weakly.

  
“Yes,” Solas admits readily, “I was lying.”

  
Then she sees their destination, lying innocuously at the end of the hall: an eluvian.

  
“What?” she breathes, writhing in his grasp again. “An eluvian? There’s one down here? Who has the key?”

  
“Relax, I have it,” he replies. “None of our enemies shall be exploiting this entrance.” He gestures as they draw near. Blue fire engulfs the mirror, bringing it to life.

  
“Wait, wait,” Lana yelps, struggling now. “The last time I went through one of these, I ended up in the Fade! I appreciate the intent, truly, but I’ve taken enough magical risks this week-” She breaks off, realizing that he’s completely ignoring her. Needless to say, her struggles have gotten her nowhere. “ _Solas_ ,” she tries, half exasperated and half alarmed.

  
“You could always scream for Seeker Pentaghast to save you,” Solas offers reasonably. “The echoes would likely carry your voice.”

  
She gives him a flat look. “You want me to scream for Cassandra? I’d never do something that embarrassing.”

  
“I know,” he agrees fondly, “that’s why it’s so easy to make off with you.”

  
He steps through the mirror.

  
Pathos and seduction are cheap tricks. They can be artfully applied, most certainly, especially on the unprepared. Lana, however, has been focused and wary. She has chased paths of inquiry relentlessly tonight, desperate for an answer. She thought she was finally making headway.

  
The instant Skyhold vanishes from her sight, however, she sees otherwise. Solas’s hand of tricks contains more than smoke and mirrors. He can coax the mind as surely as he can coax the heart. He doesn’t want to answer her questions- so he has taken her here. He has given her brain something new on which to feast. One look at the structure before her and a hundred new questions swarm her head. Her heart is choked with wonder.

  
“The Vir Dirthara,” Solas tells her, setting her down as she stares speechlessly out at the shattered library.

  
It is a labyrinth of knowledge. She’ll never want for answers here. In fact, there are so many answers strewn throughout this ruin, it’s more likely her question will get lost.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you give Ellana a library...

It should be noted that Ellana has spent far more time studying ruins than she’s spent leading Inquisitions. Locating ancient knowledge was the prime ambition of her clan. The Lavellans traveled through dense forests where the Veil was thin. They dove into lakes to reach sunken citadels. They chased lost answers with tireless resolve. It was the reason for which they, the Dalish, existed. Lana’s insatiable curiosity was forged in this lifestyle. Every sentence that left her lips as a child began with “why.”

  
She has always accepted the fact that time and effort are required to get answers, especially answers to these oldest questions. Naturally, she also thought Solas was exaggerating when he described just how many books he was going to give her. One of the dazed observations that drifts through her stupefied brain now is that no, he was not exaggerating at all.

  
She could spend every last minute of her life reading and she’d still die before she read every book in the Vir Dirthara. It isn’t a matter of laboriously seeking answers. It’s a matter of which answer to pick first.

  
Then there’s the fact that the library is floating in a misty piece of the Fade. How did the elves manage _that?_ Then there’s how it seems to be shattered, damaged by some type of magical catastrophe. Was the library attacked? Is its battered state related to Arlathan’s fall? Then there’s Skyhold, the ancient elvhen ruin she’s been sitting on for months without realizing it. Is it safe to occupy a semi-sentient keep full of closed-off secret passages?

  
And finally there’s Solas, her original problem.

  
By this point, she just wants to conclude that he is an ancient elf like Abelas and the Sentinels. It would be a pretty and even pleasing solution to this increasingly sinister puzzle. A few minutes ago however, an elf was one of the shapes he boasted about using to deceive people. Thus, she is reduced to concluding that Solas is an ancient…something.

  
There are currently more question marks in her brain than words. Terror has an electrifying effect on wonder. There are tears of awe in her eyes. She can scarcely even breathe. When she does draw a breath, it tastes of dust and emptiness. She is the youngest thing for miles. The air marvels at the newness of her skin.

  
Solas notices the way she sways on her feet and takes a hold of her hand.

  
“Well then,” he prompts, setting off down the rubble-strewn path with her in tow. “Fiction, history, culture, poetry, science…?”

  
Lana gapes at a gigantic golden hand cradling a broken eluvian. Then she shakes herself, glancing vaguely about. “Ah,” she rasps, “history, please.”

  
“Ma nuvenin,” he says.

  
A red haze in the shape of a body drifts toward them from the precipice. “Greetings, honored elvhen,” it hails them in a distant voice.

  
“Greetings, Study,” Solas replies. “We do not require your aid.”

  
“Understood,” the spirit returns, somehow conveying a wistful grief in its words. “I wish you much learning.” It drifts listlessly off once more.

  
“We will take a few books and then return,” Solas explains to Lana, not slowing his step to take in their surreal surroundings. “Your advisors cannot spare you for long, I’m sure. When you desire more, I will bring you here again.”

  
“Is it safe here?” Lana asks him, her voice hushed. It seems wrong to disturb the silence too much. “The spirits seem peaceful.”

  
“It is fairly safe,” he answers, leading her through an eluvian into another part of the library. “I wouldn’t recommend falling off the edge. You wouldn’t die, of course; there’s no ground beneath us. The problem is returning to the paths without wings. Nonetheless, the eluvian network is not as secure as it once was. I must attend to that matter soon. For the time being, there is some risk of encountering intruders. I prefer to be here with you.”

  
“I’ve bested all sorts of things while exploring ruins,” she points out, trying to peer through the mist. “Sylvans, wraiths, bandits, wolves…”

  
“Then these ruins were not full of books,” he concludes with a small smile. “Your focus while reading is too intent. A druffalo could sneak up on you.”

  
“Not a druffalo,” Lana disagrees seriously. “A pack of squealing nugs wearing sleigh bells maybe. But not a druffalo."

  
“I fail to see the distinction.” Solas comes to a stop in a circle of bookshelves. “Here we are, Inquisitor,” he says, setting her down once more. “Elvhenan’s histories, dating back to the first of the People. It’s all riddled with propaganda and grandiose claims, of course. What textbooks are not?”

  
They stand in a circular room, stairways and eluvians leading off at intervals between bookshelves. The section seems to continue on, winding up a stairway on the left. Many tomes are scattered across the floor but most remain upon the shelves. In the center of the room, there are stone trees like the ones she saw in the Exalted Plains. She scarcely glances at them, her gaze dragged magnetically to the books.

  
Solas has an odd expression on his face as he watches her. His eyes are far away, their cloudy blue color reminiscent of the misty Fade around them. He’s at home in the ruin. He has that same air of loss and timelessness.

  
Perhaps Lana was wrong about this being a distraction. It _is_ a concession of sorts. She might even find her answers here. If the telling is truly so painful for him, is this his way of confiding?

  
“Thank you, Solas,” she says quietly, brushing the tips of her fingers against the spine of an ancient book. “I can’t begin to tell you how much this means.”

  
“No,” he assures her. “I understand.”

  
A crackle ruptures the quiet then. Solas turns sharply, gaze fixing on the stone trees behind him. A split second passes in which Lana looks up. Then green light flashes in her vision, sparking from within the trees and lancing toward her palm. The Anchor flares, sending a wave of agony through her arm.

  
Adrenaline swims rapidly up into her sight, darkening the room. The trees become writhing shadows. Solas is a mere silhouette. She sees it then- the orb, vivid and staggering, cradled within the depths of his being. It resonates and sings to her, calling through the dreams it is composed of. Then the moment is over and she is slumped against a shelf, gasping for breath.

  
“Inquisitor,” Solas says urgently, catching her shoulders. “Are you alright?”

  
“I’m…fine,” says Lana with a heavy exhale. She straightens, shaking out her aching left hand. “What was that?”

  
“The Anchor has begun absorbing caches of collected energy,” he explains. “It should not have entered this stage of its development so soon. You’ve barely had it a year.”

  
“The Anchor has stages?” She sobers, looking down at the glowing, green mark. “Corypheus really didn’t know anything about it, did he? But you do.” She reaches out, placing her palm over his chest where she saw the orb. She asks him the same question she once hurled at the darkspawn magister. “What is the Anchor meant to do?”

  
“Think of it as a control system for the orb, a stabilizer,” Solas tells her quietly, hands closing over her still throbbing wrist. He is closely watching her face. “In theory, it is the permanent bond between master and focus- a conduit for the casting of massive, long lasting spells. Even without the orb, it retains specific functions. It can open portals through the Fade like an eluvian. Part of its design is to continuously absorb ambient energies, charging itself.” He shakes his head. “In this way, its power increases over time.”

  
“Huh,” she muses. “Okay. Great.”

  
“No,” Solas disagrees grimly. “Not really.” He turns away, removing himself from her reach. “Choose the books you wish to read,” he bids her. “We should not linger here too long.”

 

o0O0o

 

Ellana frowns at the passage, stuck on yet another inscrutable ancient elvhen proverb. She has made considerable headway since Solas showed her the Vir Dirthara. She took as many tomes as she could carry back to Skyhold, then twice that when Solas offered to carry some for her. Since then, she has spent three days on her quarters’ Orlesian divan, surrounded by tomes.

  
Normally, she’d never be allowed such leisure. Her stays at Skyhold are usually punctuated by Josephine’s agendas, political events and paperwork. Then there are the war councils. With victory so fresh however, the Inquisition’s revelry continues. The inhabitants of Skyhold sing, dance and drink with each other. The tavern is packed to bursting at all hours of the day. Lana guesses they’ll be at it for about another week.

  
“He had ‘a moon’s whim for retribution?’” she asks, not looking up. “What does that mean?”

  
Reading the ancient elvhen language is not effortless for her. Her long conversations with Solas have familiarized her with some of the phraseology. The intricate nuances in word formations often escape her notice however. The meaning of certain passages eludes her. Then there are the analogies and references she doesn’t understand.

  
Unfortunately, the linguistics aren’t the most troublesome part. All the books from the Vir Dirthara are written in Veil fire. Thus, they convey not only meaning but sensory data as well.

  
Lana is learning twice as fast, pictures forming vividly in her mind’s eye. She is also overwhelmed. It’s dangerously immersive. There’s a culture shock and a revelation for every page.

  
“Oh, that means wishing to give exactly the response that is due,” Solas’s voice answers her distractedly. “It’s referencing how shadows fall across the moon in phases, added with the reputation of Mythal."

  
“Ah, yes,” Lana mutters, nodding to herself. “Yes, of course.”

  
The actual information in the tomes is incredible, really. While it doesn’t benefit her terribly to know what war happened when, she is slowly developing a larger sense of elvhen society. Most of the infighting among the gods seems friendly. Andruil wagered this, Falon’din had a whim and so on. Centuries were consumed with idle competition, conducted via proxy, deception or design. Who could create the best new wonder? Who could hunt down Ghilan’nain’s new monster? Did Sylaise have the most efficient cure to such and such illness or did Dirthamen? It continued extensively. The gods treated miracles like diversions. They vied over who could deliver the best gifts to the People.

  
There are elements to the histories that make less sense, of course. Lana encounters many mentions of Pillars of the Earth, the Nameless Ones and some kind of burning force that had to be protected…or guarded…or kept. Places Lana has never heard of are frequently mentioned. So are magical devices, methods and art forms. Much is still unclear. The culture however reaches her.

  
Ancient elves had a great appreciation for beauty in both their surroundings and in themselves. They prized grace and elegance. The most commonplace objects had to be crafted by expert artisans, intricately carved and enchanted. Then the books speak constantly of pride. The emotion is discussed almost as much as any one of the gods. It’s praised and condemned so equally however that Lana has trouble discerning if the elvhen viewed it as vice or virtue. _‘Pride infiltrated their ranks and destroyed them from within,’_ or _‘it was pride that led this unlikely group to victory,’_ and _‘pride alone advocates the freedom of the People,’_ and _‘pride is like a disease, constantly warping the efforts of our empire.’_

  
“Hmm,” says Lana, closing her book. She looks up, blinking owlishly in the noontime light. Her tower room is bathed in the sun. It’s also a mess. She is surrounded by a modest mountain of books. Tomes are scattered over the divan and stacked in towers around it. From there, a strange trail of crumpled papers and half-finished notations lead the way to her desk.

  
Solas has taken over her little office nook and raided her drawer of spare parchment. His inky scribbles and indecipherable diagrams are spread wildly over the desk’s surface. Lana’s been absorbed in her reading. She’s fairly sure that the last time she looked up at him, there were only one or two pages of notes. Whatever he’s writing, he’s extremely intent on it- if the smudge of ink on his cheek is any sign.

She watches him for a while. With the level of concentration he has going, there’s no chance he’ll catch her staring. She studies the contours of his face, the deep furrow between his brows, the frown at the corners of his mouth. Extracting herself from her studies and seeing him here is normal. Everything from the way he writes to his presence in this room is normal. Each little detail about this moment endears him to her.

  
It does nothing, however, to banish her fears.

  
How have things come to this? Her outlooks were once so grounded. Before defeating Corypheus, she knew exactly what it was she must do. Her goals were mighty, of course. She doubted her ability to achieve them. Divining a way to work towards them however had been easy. When she killed the magister and held the orb in her hands, she thought she had won. Thedas was safe and the thing Solas so desperately needed was finally reclaimed.

  
She never doubted him. It was his actions, his distortion of reality itself, that shattered her concept of him.

  
He is not what he says he is. So what is he? The question burns her brain as she stares at him, eclipsing days of priceless historical information. He’s the person she loves but he isn’t a person. People change and develop over time. He acts according to his nature the way an element would. He deceives widely and he deceives within spaces as small as a single conversation. He teaches through lies, offering just enough information for Lana to find the next step. It’s not a simple mystery to solve.

  
That’s the frustrating part. Lana is so conflicted that, until she puts enough pieces together to answer her question, she literally cannot decide what to do about it. She’s stranded. She’s trapped between two possibilities, two realities to believe in. Uncertainty forms her shackles. This vivid love of hers wars with corrosive terror and distrust.

  
She wishes she could place bets with her life only. If so, she’d choose Solas. As a leader, however, she bets with the lives of thousands…and she gave the orb to him.

  
Weariness comes over her then. She sags back against the divan, looking down to stare blankly at her book. Only minutes ago, the history consumed her completely. Now the words blur before her eyes. She’s exhausted. She’s drowning in her unproven failures.

  
She cares for Solas dearly, genuinely and wholly. If he was in danger, she’d jump to his defense. If someone derided him, she’d lose her temper. When she perceives his suffering, she suffers in sync. Should his true nature change that?

  
It might be hysteria talking but for a moment she thinks, no. She was once certain of her faith. She has since adapted to losing it. She can adapt to Solas as well.

“Are you working on magical theory?” she asks, setting down the book and picking her way across the room.

  
In the current state of things, it’s difficult not to step on either books or parchment. She squints down at Solas’s writing as she approaches the desk. It’s all in ancient elvhen, of course. It’s also riddled with equations, numerical values and sketches. Lana has a feeling it would take both her and Dorian to make any sense of it. She’d translate. The necromancer would tell her what on earth her translations meant. As much as Lana has studied, she can’t match Solas’s comprehension of magic’s fine intricacies.

  
Solas scrubs a hand over his eyes and sets down his quill. He stares at the notes for a moment before answering. “No,” he says then pauses. “It’s more like hashing out the viability of a precautionary defense system. I already know how the magic must be constructed. I can work it all out, it’s just…” He shakes his head, fixing the notes with a cold, angry stare. His next words are vehement. “There won’t be enough power for it. There won’t be enough time. I’m being a fool.”

  
“Worst case scenario,” Lana tries to soothe him, “you’ve helped me use up some ridiculously fancy, Orlesian scented parchment.”

  
He makes a noncommittal noise in response. Then he frowns angrily at his notes some more. Beneath his frustration, Lana sees genuine distress. Confusion stalls her. Surely he isn’t still upset. He has the orb now. He’s been nearly unmanageable since obtaining it.

  
She watches him for a while as he makes a few harsh scratches with his quill. Then she places her hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles with her thumb.

  
“Maybe you should take a break,” she gently suggests, stepping in close. Solas exhales, leaning his head wearily against her side. She wraps her arm around him, caressing his scalp. “I could ask someone to bring up some cakes.”

  
“Thank you,” he says politely, “but not right now.”

  
Regardless of his refusal, he does not reject her embrace. She holds him close against her chest, watching the balcony windows. She still loves being near to him. He smells like books and paint and herbs. A ghostly sense of security haunts her, rooted in his intelligence and how often she’s relied on it. Then there’s the tiny splinter of horror that corrupts everything. She’s holding an illusion in her arms, both persona and disguise. There could be anything hiding within it.

She’s sick of it. She has hesitated to ask him questions, considerate of his pain and his troubles. This fear of hers however is not something she can patiently endure. Elvhen history can cover it and love can mislead it. Her desire to know truth about all things prevents her from letting it go. She _has_ to know and that need makes her reckless. She'd be happy to provoke any kind of response at all. 

“We never did finish celebrating,” she remarks to him, transferring her caresses to his ear. She runs her thumb suggestively along the blade. He gives a low hum against the fabric of her vest. “Surely the books and the papers can wait.”

  
Solas’s hand slips down to her hip. She draws back enough to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded and enticed. She places a hand on the arm rest, leaning down for a kiss. It begins with teasing slowness. It always does with them. She’s not sure who brings patience and who is fierce beneath a passive façade. Perhaps they make a fine pair, both with heads full of terrible, chaotic thoughts and both so outwardly calm. She just knows that soon he’s coaxed her lips apart and she’s trying to take his mouth with her tongue.

  
She holds his face in her hands, thumb pressing into his lower lip. He pulls at her until she’s kneeling over him, a leg between his thighs on the chair. It’s like tumbling down a slope that gets steeper every inch. She approaches with reason and intent. Then she stumbles over want. Her thirst for reassurance and base pleasure only adds to her momentum. The best she can do is drag him down with her. She breaks away from his mouth and licks the blade of his ear. He groans and lets his head fall back. She goes for his jaw and neck, sucking bruises into his skin.

  
Solas holds onto her, embracing her tightly, pressing his face against her hair. She caresses his thighs and slips a hand up his shirt. His chest swells and falls with an aggrieved sigh.

  
“No,” he says as if to himself, “…no, no, no,” and gives her a light push. She pauses then withdraws, finding her feet.

  
“What is it?” she says. She fails to make her voice as steady as she’d like. She wants to climb back into his lap.

  
“Stop tempting me to do horrible things,” he says in a single exhale, not looking at her. The words sound raw and aggravated. He’s on edge, tapping a finger sharply against the desk. His mouth twists as he looks at his mess of notes. “Ever since you decided to have that little bath of yours, I’ve done nothing but behave abominably.”

  
“You’ve behaved like someone who is lonely and suffering,” she disagrees. These words that were once so sincere are almost a reflex now. It’s like she’s following the script of her own broken naivety. “But you’re not alone, Solas. I’m with you. You can share your burdens with me.”

  
“I appreciate the sentiment.” He reaches out, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His lips linger- as if he’d rather lick her skin. Then he meets her eyes, giving a forced smile. “Truly. Now go read your books.”

  
Lana returns his gaze for a moment. Then she nods. “Alright,” she concedes obligingly, turning her back on him. She takes a few steps. Then, pretending a note on the floor has caught her interest, she bends at the waist and picks it up. This gives Solas a perfect view of her backside. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s wearing her extremely tight-fitting Venture Forth pants today. She listens, slow to stand upright once more. She cocks her hip to one side as she studies the parchment. Then, upon hearing that telltale hitch of his breathing, she hides a grim smile.

  
“You’re an absolute menace,” Solas informs her, the condemnation coming quick and harsh. “As a matter of fact, you’re the bane of my existence. Does that make you happy?”

  
“Yes,” she assures him at once. “I’m very happy, thank you.”

  
“I see,” he bites out. Then he lunges forward, grabbing her by the hips and dragging her backward into his lap. “Come here.”

  
The tension of his body is impossible to miss. It seeps into her like electricity, buzzing through her nerve points. It’s hard to distinguish the lines between desire and fury and pain. She recognizes his mood though. He was in this same state during the first of their trysts. She disrespected his wishes, seduced him and in so doing, denied him the moral high ground he covets. What of it? He doesn’t deserve to feel morally superior when he’s keeping secrets from her. If he wants to take pride in righteousness, he should bloody well do what is right.

  
Lana writhes in his grasp, deliberately rolling her hips. He hisses in her ear and she feels it, hardness growing where they’re pressed together. He drags her hair over her shoulder and nips at her neck. He runs his hands over her body, grasping and pulling her closer against him.

  
“Why do you torment me?” he asks, kneading her breasts through her clothing, his mouth pressed against her cheek. “Do you hate me? Do you think I act out of some deranged love of disaster? Hmm? Is that it, vhenan? You think I’m laughing inside? Tell me.”

  
It’s impossible to pace her heartbeat. Her breathing quickens as he yanks open buckles and pops buttons off her vest. He doesn’t seem to be talking about anything she’s said to him. What is he even going on about?

  
“No, you’re hiding things from me,” she tries to explain, reaching up to grab the back of his neck. “And it’s obvious that whatever it is, it’s- _nn-_ ” He’s gotten through her three layers of clothing to her vulnerable skin. The pinching and twisting doesn’t make it easier to communicate. She arches into his touch. “It’s dangerous.”

  
“I did what I had to do,” he insists while she squirms in his lap.

  
“I believe you,” she tells him breathlessly. She’s still not certain what they’re talking about. She releases his neck to find his jaw, turning until she can look at him. His eyes are like a hailstorm up close. There’s enough ice and pain in there to freeze the world. She brushes her lips across his, trying to warm him. “I do believe you. Trust me.”

  
“Then do you have the slightest idea how much- how hopeless-” he begins but cuts himself off. He kisses her chin and her cheek and her ear. It’s not affectionate though. He’s agitated, angry and upset. He shakes his head, shifting beneath her.

  
“We’re better off together,” she murmurs, catching his hand and kissing it. “We _are_.”

  
“Fine then,” he concedes, voice turning sharp. “Fine!”

  
He yanks open the clasp of her pants. The notes on the desk rise in a storm of parchment, magic shuffling them into loosely-stacked piles. Solas stands and puts her face down on the newly cleared desk. She catches herself on her lectern before she finds her feet. Then he’s pulling her trousers down around her knees, bending over her, pressing against her back.

  
“You can eat those words,” he says in her ear, making her shudder and arch up against him. “Eat them until your dying breath if it pleases you!”

  
“Oh, I will, Solas,” she promises sweetly, trying to catch her breath as she stares over the desk‘s edge, “in fact, I’ll eat them for breakfast. With honey and scones and clotted cream-” She hears the rustle of fabric seconds before he takes her. Her slick insides clench around his sudden entrance. She breaks off in a wail, gasping.

  
He fucks her at a rapid, demanding pace that has her clinging to her desk. The rush of exhilaration she feels leaves her dizzy. She doesn’t like upsetting him, doesn’t want to see him hurt, but it’s nigh impossible to regret it. If she’d never seduced him at the Oasis, she’d never have known a thing. Forcing this intimacy is the only way through his walls. More than that, it’s decadent. She’s becoming an addict for it.

  
She’s too worked up. The angle he hits with each stroke steals her breath. Ragged cries spill from her lips. Her hands slip on the desk’s smooth surface. The desk creaks beneath her. The lectern rattles. Both she and Solas are still mostly clothed; their heat is trapped against their skin. Then it’s one thrust too many and she crests. Her body seizes and grips Solas in a vise. She lifts her head, arching back. He groans, his fingers curling over her exposed throat, his head bowed against her shoulder.

  
She slumps in his grasp, holding the desk loosely. Her limbs feel boneless, languid satisfaction shivering down to her toes. He grinds into her and she shudders, wracked with aftershocks.

  
“Already?” he baits her in a breath. “That’s all, was it?” He tugs at the leather and fabric still covering her back, freeing her shoulders. He nips along the nape of her neck, whispering, “you’re always in such a hurry.”

  
Returning to false senses of security, perhaps Lana should have considered her strategy with more care. Between the orb, Solas’s shape shifting and the Vir Dirthara, she forgot how vindictive he can be in bed. She shakes herself, trying to collect her thoughts enough to develop a counter measure. The heady rhythm he returns to has a wrecking effect. His length stretches and caresses her insides, ramming deep enough in to make her see stars. After her comment about scones, he might just be trying to drive her mad.

  
“Want me to…” she shifts on the desk, unable to catch her breath. The edge closer to Solas is digging into her thighs. She’s covered in a fine layer of sweat. She’s overheated and tangled in her disheveled clothing. It’s about self preservation at this point. “Want me to try using my mouth…?” she manages to ask.

  
“That’s alright, my heart,” Solas soothes in an ominously tender tone of voice. “I know a trick or two to hurry things along. I know how you get tired.”

  
She has a split second in which to feel terrified.

  
Then he gives her rump a light swat, simultaneously shocking her with an electrical charge. Neither the swat nor the charge are in the slightest bit painful. Instead, the shock sparking off his palm buzzes through Lana’s body, waking her nerves like a bucket full of ice water and forcing every muscle she has to clench. She goes instantaneously from languid and boneless to seizing. The startling sensation makes her yelp and Solas, buried hilt-deep inside her, smothers a cry against her back.

  
Lana falls back against the desk, panting raggedly. His quickened pace does little to help her collect herself. “Magic?” she asks weakly, moderately stunned as she watches her fingers twitch on the lectern. “Can’t you-”

  
“Do it again? Certainly.”

  
The second shock is stronger, buzzing all the way to her teeth. She shrieks, jumping, but he clings to her and holds her down. They’re both breathing heavily now, Solas groaning raggedly at the violent tightening of her body. He must be close now. She realizes dizzily that she is too.

  
“I can’t,” she babbles, wide-eyed and shaking, “Solas, please-”

  
“One more time?” he coaxes, his voice roughened and robbed of breath. “Hmm? Once more for our mighty hero?”

  
“Who’s mighty?” she demands highly, flailing when he pulls her up off the desk. She impacts his chest, falling against him in a mockery of standing. She cannot stand. He’s holding her up with one hand braced across her body and the other at her hip. She realizes his intent as he reaches between her legs. “No, no,” she refutes, “wait- aah-!”

  
The last charge sparks over her clit, shocking her into an orgasm that turns her vision white. Distantly, she hears Solas shouting into her shoulder, the heat of his seed filling her. The pleasure drowns out all else. Then she’s folding gently back onto the desk, one hand dangling off the edge. Behind her, the chair creaks as Solas stumbles into it.

  
For a while, they stare dazedly at nothing.

  
One of these days, she’ll have him when he’s calm and happy. Then there won’t be any of this passive aggressive banter, this shouting and this unexpected sex magic. It will be lovely.

  
Lana exhales a vaguely hysterical breath, trying to blink her vision back into focus. There’s pleasure thrumming everywhere, lingering in her stomach and trailing down to her toes. She can’t stop shuddering. On the flipside, the desk is extremely uncomfortable. Her rump is naked and the insides of her thighs are soaked in the chilly tower room. Aches flare throughout her legs and back, prompted by either the rough position or the sparks. She’s completely sure that she cannot stand up without falling.

  
She hears Solas shift behind her. The warmth of his hand settles over her rump. He leaves it there for a moment then grasps the desk instead, staggering back to his feet. There’s a rustle as he straightens his breeches.

  
“Here, now,” he mutters numbly, easing her up. He leans heavily on the desk, supporting her. She groans, tripping a bit on her tangled pants. She manages to shuck them off, discarding her vest, shirt and undergarments shortly after them. Solas helps her across the room to the bed and they collapse on it.

  
Once they’re wrapped warmly in quilts, she glances at his face. His expression is blank and lost- as if he’s floating in a void. It reminds her of the time he asked if the Anchor had changed her spirit. He’s baffled and doesn’t know what to do.

  
She curls into his side and absently caresses his face. He leans into her touch, eyes closing. It’s not really his fault he’s so hard to deal with, is it? She’ll allot blame later on, once she has a better perspective. For now, she falls into a half dose. Outside, snow is falling.

 

o0O0o

 

“Are edgy bedroom techniques the sort of thing you can learn in the Fade?” she inquires some hours later. The fire has long since burned down. She’s hoping Solas will stoke it with his magic because there’s no way she’s getting up.

  
He blinks, returning to himself from far away thoughts. “Edgy?” he inquires absently. “I recall nothing that qualifies as ‘edgy.’”

  
“Electrical charges?” she points out, shuddering involuntarily at the memory. She’s still high on the after glow. She’s also suffering the occasional muscle spasm in her fingers or eyelids or calves.

  
“Oh,” Solas scoffs, wryness in the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid that’s the _least_ edgy thing one could find in memories of Ancient Elvhenan.”

It’s Lana’s turn to blink. “Really?”

  
“Indeed,” he assures her. “A society of excess time, magic and wealth, steeped in decadence? Where more than twenty percent of people could shape shift into at least one alternate form? ‘Bedroom techniques,’ as you call them, were highly creative.”

  
She’s perplexed. “I can’t even imagine.”

  
“Then I will not sully your innocent mind,” he replies graciously. “There are better things to preserve than idle diversions of the powerful.”

  
She watches him for a moment. It’s good to get him talking. The more he tells her about anything, the closer she gets to finding the truth. Was getting him in bed like this the right choice? She thinks so…but it can be so hard to tell.

  
“Do you like edgy things then?” she asks uncertainly. “Is what we’ve done…satisfying enough?”

  
“If we satisfied each other any more, we’d likely lose consciousness,” he points out. He’s slightly distant when he speaks, as if his thoughts are carrying him away. “It’s more difficult to embrace a loved one. Emotion complicates things. You see, in the past, I usually slept with rivals. Enemies even. It was a simple way to maintain an even balance of power. I could use my full range of tricks and temptations. I’d create traps for their senses while avoiding the traps they laid for me. The challenge was intoxicating. At the same time, the apathy I felt for my partner was a safety net. I risked losing my life. I never risked my sanity.”

  
Lana listens in silence, still pressed against his side. Under the quilt, she finds his hand and laces her fingers through his.

  
“To answer your question, I like edgy things,” he muses. “I like everything so long as it does not involve abuse.” Then his abstraction fades, replaced by ice. He turns his head, his cheek pressed against her hair. “Though I suppose that’s changed.”

  
A sharp flare of annoyance twinges her heart. After everything she has done, it doesn’t seem fair that he would still view her as a child. Her naivety is limited and her inexperience is dwindling. What must she do to achieve this ‘even balance of power’ he speaks of? He can shock her in bed all day long and she won't feel exploited. She’s the one coercing him to hold her time and time again.

  
His words make no sense on the surface. If she peers into her stark unease however, her subtly acidic distrust, the words come to life. It’s not his behavior that he is condemning. It’s his behavior in the context of his secrets. Even once she knows his entire story, she doesn’t want to believe anything about their time together is _abusive_.

  
She shifts, leans over him and bites the juncture between his shoulder and neck. He jerks beneath her, surprised. His hand comes up to tangle in her hair. She sinks her teeth in harder then sucks at the battered patch of skin. When she’s satisfied with her effort, she licks the damage she’s left.

  
“Mutually abusive now,” she informs him.

  
He widens his eyes at the ceiling. “I shall bear that in mind.”

  
“Good,” she says with finality. It’s a pleasing enough resolution for now. When he drifts off a bit later however, she slips out of bed. She washes quickly with a basin and cloth then gets dressed. Then she goes to her desk and retrieves Solas stack of notes. It takes her an hour and a half to replicate them in Common. When she’s finished, she replaces his papers as she found them.

  
She takes her translations to Dorian.

 

o0O0o

 

Discovering that Skyhold still exists outside of Lana’s bedroom is a revelation. She has been shut up in there for so long that the castle seems like a dream. Her head is bursting with ancient mysteries and the perilous dilemma of Solas’s motives. She has been thinking so intensely. Then suddenly, there’s just empty hallways and her armful of papers.

  
It’s evening. She realizes that, on top of being reclusive, she’s kept strange hours too. She catches the arm of a servant girl walking past.

  
“Pardon,” she murmurs, “do you have any idea where Dorian Pavus is at the moment?”

  
“Yes, your worship,” says the girl, curtsying. “Cook mentioned seeing him in the tavern not long ago. He’s been drinking with the Chargers, I should think.”

  
“Thank you,” says Lana and sets off in that direction. The smells of roasting meat and cooking fires fill her lungs as she leaves the main keep. She’s breathed almost nothing but parchment and snow scents this past week. She shakes herself and walks faster.

  
Dorian is not difficult to locate. He’s perched imperiously on Iron Bull’s knee, explaining to a bemused Cremisius how to determine the quality of wine. Clearly, he’s smashed. For one, he’s not bothering with his prized discretion. For two, he’s talking about fine wine while drinking Ferelden ale.

  
Bull notices her first. “Boss,” he greets amicably, his voice booming across the crowded room. She picks her way through the crowd to them and takes up an empty chair. Bull grins widely at her, signaling the barmaid to bring another drink. “We weren’t expecting to see you so soon. From what Varric said about you and Solas, we weren’t expecting you to be able to walk.”

  
“It was a near thing,” Lana admits, accepting a tankard from the maid.

  
“Let’s not gossip about other people’s business,” Dorian advises, slurring the words ever so slightly. “There’s this thing called tact…”

  
“Right,” Bull concedes ruefully, clearing his throat. “Tact.”

  
“Actually, I was hoping I could borrow Dorian for a bit,” Lana interjects. She has to strike while the iron is hot- specifically before things devolve into raunchy jokes and everyone’s laughing too hard to listen.

  
“You’re asking _me_ if you can borrow Dorian?” Bull blinks.

  
“Sexy,” Krem comments, inciting a bunch of whistles from the Chargers.

  
Dorian hands start filling with magically summoned snow which he first dumps on Bull’s head then crumples into a ball to throw at Krem. The laughter reaches a roaring level. "Barbarians,” he snubs them, sliding primly off of Bull’s knee. Bull, laughing and batting snow off his head, steadies him when he sways.

  
“Come on then,” Dorian says, using Lana’s shoulder as support instead. “Let’s find somewhere moderately quieter. Enough at least that we can hear ourselves think.”

  
They climb up into the keep and head to the library together. Soon they’re ensconced in Dorian’s favorite nook and Lana is showing him the notes. He spends some time poring over them, the fogginess in his eyes replaced by keen and alert intellect.

  
“These are genius,” he breathes after a while, shuffling through the papers. “Revolutionary brilliance even. The Veil’s properties are described as measured constants and factored into his estimations. He’s treating the Veil as if it’s nothing but an established spell. And…compensating for its absence…”

  
“Can you tell what this ‘defense system’ of his is supposed to do?” Lana asks.

  
Dorian blinks a few times and murmurs, “brilliant” under his breath. Then he shrugs. “It’s really not my area of study, Lana,” he tells her, “so I might not be _entirely_ correct. My best guess is that this is a shielding system meant to span across Thedas. Theoretically, it’s a network composed of ritual pylons placed in sixty four or so highly-populated cities.” He holds up her recreation of one of Solas’s sketches. With his description, she now sees that it’s shaped like a map. “Power will travel through the network, allowing each pylon to shield a vast area around it. There’s a load of notes about self-sustainability, energy conservation and reactivity to outside attack. I can’t begin to tell you exactly what that’s about. The overall purpose, however, seems to be damage reduction should someone tear down the Veil. Shielded zones would be safe from demon attacks and harmful energies.”

  
“Tear,” Lana stammers, stunned, “tear down the Veil?”

  
“Not terribly far fetched, considering what happened with Corypheus,” Dorian muses. “I bet that world leaders will be more than happy to invest in this system as a precaution. Hopefully, there aren’t any more ancient magisters around to make the attempt in the next three ages though. The amount of lyrium required to power this system is so massive, it will take over a century of stockpiling to obtain it.”

Dorian goes back to look at the notes, clearly fascinated. Lana’s thoughts begin to race. As Dorian says, it isn’t far fetched at all that they would need this kind of system. After the Breach, why _not_ have it? Just in case? It makes so much sense that she wouldn’t hesitate to pitch this magical project to her advisors.

  
The problem is what Solas said about it. _‘There won’t be enough power for it. There won’t be enough time. I’m being a fool.’_

  
Power is less of a problem than Dorian thinks. Solas, most surely, could power this defense system with the orb. What does he mean then, saying there won’t be enough time? That implies that someone is planning to rip down the Veil! It makes no sense. Who but Corypheus, now dead and rotting, would be insane enough to bring about an apocalypse?

  
Lana feels like hyperventilating all of a sudden. She grips the arm of her chair so hard that her knuckles turn white.

  
“Lana,” Dorian says, glancing up from the papers. “Are you alright?”

  
“Yes,” she tells him faintly. “I’m fine.”

  
“You look pale,” he observes, reaching over to feel her forehead, “and thinner too. You’re sure you’re not ill?”

  
“I’ve missed a few meals, that’s all,” Lana tells him, shaking her head. “Solas gave me some ancient elvhen books. I’ve scarcely been able to put them down these last few days. I’ve been up in my room this whole time, reading about their…” She trails off, comprehension hitting her like a charging bronto. “…pride.”

  
She misses nuances. She’s just not good enough at the language to understand everything perfectly. Thus, it seems normal to her when a paragraph doesn’t quite make sense. This mistranslation, however, is staggeringly obvious in hindsight. If Lana were to write, for example, _‘Abelas wanted to destroy the Vir Abelasan,’_ it would read in Common, _‘Sorrow wanted to destroy the Well of Sorrows,’_ with a little curl to the words to convey that Sorrow is a proper noun.

  
She hadn’t been reading about pride. She’d been reading about _Pride_.

  
Pride, which of course in ancient elvhen is ‘Solas.’


	5. Chapter 5

Before Corypheus’s defeat, Ellana had very little to go on. Solas was a closed door. He revealed none of his secrets. She saw discrepancies in his story but she had no means of pursuing them. She was patient at first, trying to earn his trust over time. Then, spurned repeatedly, she grew reckless. She took risks she should not have taken. She didn’t know she was playing with fire.

  
Lana is wiser now; her recent experiences have allowed her that much learning. She understands that, whatever he is, Solas is not to be gambled with. She cannot rush forward and hope for the best. She must stop playing dice. The only rational way to handle this dilemma is with painstaking, feather light subtlety. The situation is stable for now. She won’t mention her revelations to Solas. She won’t panic and demand answers. She will do nothing to jeopardize the fragile equilibrium within Skyhold. Instead, she will gather and process information.

  
Unlike the recent past, acquiring data now is possible. She even knows exactly where to look. With the Vir Dirthara available, she has access to a gold mine of ancient information. Even better, she has leads. Now that she suspects the elvhen histories concern Solas, she will reread them in this illuminated context. The puzzle _will_ unravel. It’s only a matter of time.

  
Time, however, is a problem of its own.

  
After a week of partying, the Inquisition is literally regaining its sobriety. Lana’s leisure is at its end. She returns to her job as she must, joining her advisors at the war table. With the Venatori defeated, it only makes sense for the Inquisition to commit its resources to recovery. They make plans to secure highways, locate remaining Fade rifts and gradually restore order. Empress Celene, who is taking the recent victory as a chance to secure her power, has sent requests for their alliance to be further defined. Extensive amounts of time are spent on discussing the future of the Chantry. Leliana’s ascension to the Sunburst Throne is all but decided. Nonetheless, there are a slew of logistics, technicalities, formal statements and politicking to address.

  
The discussions take all day and Lana’s schedule is full up for weeks in advance.

  
Other than the demands of the office, she has her friends to deal with. Her Inner Circle seems to be under the impression that she has been shut her in quarters screwing Solas all week. If she exits the keep, she is met with knowing smirks. She completely forgot to consider how her reading binge looked to her friends. They played Wicked Grace, danced and drank themselves under tables. She and Solas were absent. Of course assumptions were made. Admittedly, they’re not _entirely_ wrong but Sera is just out of control.

  
“Been busy, eh, Lady Inquisitor?” says the rogue that morning when they nearly collide with each other in the courtyard. She has an ominous grin on her face, her bangs as wild as ever. She sidles up to Lana, drops her voice into its deepest possible registers and grunts out, “ _elvvennn glorrryy!"_

  
Lana gives her a sidelong look, shifts her balance and then swipes her leg suddenly out at the back of Sera’s knees. The rogue goes down with a squawk, landing hard on her backside.

  
“Argh!” Sera exclaims, sprawling on the snowy turf. “My butt!”

  
“Be nice,” says Lana firmly, “or I’ll get you with a pie.”

  
Sera shrugs. “S’long as it’s chocolate.”

  
“Be nice or I’ll make you help me with the ancient elvhen books I’ve been reading.” Lana pauses then can’t resist the urge to justify herself. “ _That’s_ what I’ve been busy with, I’ll have you know. I wouldn’t spend a whole week in bed!”

  
“What, so you two have been up there studying elfy elf stuff?” Sera asks in disgust, scrunching up her nose. “That’s even _worse!”_

  
“Studying is fun,” Lana attempts in a cheerful, coaxing voice. “You should try it.”

  
“You should try something less elfy,” Sera retorts, climbing back to her feet and brushing snow off her pants. Then she deadpans, “and by that, I mean try _anyone_ but Elfy."

  
“I don’t know why you and Solas don’t get along better.” Lana is really stuck on diplomatic endeavors. Sometimes she doesn’t know why she tries to mediate. “You have so many common interests. You’re both artists for one.”

  
“He draws boring murals that mean boring, serious things,” says Sera. “My drawings tell people where to shove it.”

  
“You both dislike the Dalish,” Lana wheedles ironically.

  
“I think they’re too elfy,” Sera shoots back. “He thinks they’re not elfy _enough!”_

  
Lana exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “Alright, alright…you do have a point.”

  
Social encounters, however, are brief and far between. With the amount of work Lana has on her plate, she cannot afford to waste daylight. Once official matters are dealt with, she returns to her room. Up in the high tower, the grim sanity of the outside world wanes. In its place arises a mad and hysterical paranoia. Lana grits her teeth and willfully hones her focus. By herself, looking out at the icy mountains, she feels like her entire world is hanging by a thread.

  
In two and a half hours, Solas will come up the stairs. He has come every day since they cooperatively misused her desk. Maybe he will want to talk. Maybe he will tempt her and lead her astray, muddling her thoughts. Sometimes she looks at him and sees nothing but innocence. She trusts him unconditionally. She believes everything that he says. Then she must tear herself out of his spell. Logic refutes what her heart cannot. Either way, her time will be at its end when he comes.

  
Reading is the only safe way to get answers. Answers are the only way for her to find a solution. She cannot hope to control something she doesn’t understand. She has to start over at the beginning of her pile. She has two and a half hours.

  
She kicks off her boots and throws down her gloves. She builds up the fire. She curls on her divan with tea she’ll inevitably forget to drink. Then she reads.

  
The amount of context she missed the first time is staggering. Rather than a vague sense of elvhen culture, Lana’s second reading imparts a vivid and unsettling tale. The historical figures come alive upon the page, every detail radiating personality. The gods were not idle influencers of society. They were archtypes. They _were_ society. Their brilliance, charisma and ingenuity formed the very foundation of Elvhenan. They led every artistic awakening, scientific discovery, cultural revelation and political movement. Everything that happened in the empire was a reaction _to_ them or a reflection _of_ them.

  
As for the accounts of Pride, his doings begin brilliant and work their way up to frighteningly brilliant. He helped Mythal win a war against Falon’din by turning Falon’din’s high priests against each other, triggering a slave revolt behind enemy ranks and finally collapsing a temple on top of itself. He was of crucial assistance to Ghilan’nain as she crafted powerful enchantments. Then he turned around and stole her research. Then he used it to stop a flood she never would have bothered with.

Occasionally, the tomes claim, greedy and ambitious elves sought to use Pride's good intentions to their advantage. Then the records turn frightful and dark for he saw through them, played their games and won. He strangled them in garrotes spun from their own selfish bargains. He turned their words against them and delivered unto them ruin. Some suffered terrible pain. Some lost everything. All of them ended up dead. 

  
The histories were written to teach. To Lana, every word redefines her reality. She is beyond riveted. She reads and, in what seems like a heartbeat, her time evaporates. The hours are gone. She must return to treading dark waters, unknowing of the danger within. His voice comes like a bell and it shatters her focus.

  
“Vhenan.” Solas’s arm crosses her vision, obstructing her connection to the words. He picks up her tea, heats it with magic and set it back down again. A curl of steam rises from the liquid. He stokes the fire with a wave of his hand. “I see you are intrigued to the point of forgetting the necessities of life,” he remarks, gently reproving. “Should you freeze to death, I will console myself knowing how happy you were in your final moments.”

  
“It does get chilly this time of year,” Lana agrees and takes a gulp of the tea. She feels it sliding down her throat and into her stomach, burning the whole way down. She really did let her temperature drop. Her legs are so cold that she can’t even feel them.

  
“Skyhold is chilly,” Solas tells her, going to shut her balcony doors. “This room, however, is frigid. Even if you smother it in heating charms, the winds cut right through.”

  
“How is your mural coming?” she asks, watching him. “Have you finished the rotunda yet?”

  
It’s something of a shock to see him an arms length away, casually conversing with her. A minute ago, he was within the books. Now, it’s as though he has stepped from the pages. She drinks more tea. Her calm smile is a politician’s poker face.

  
“I have finished the base layer and some of the background elements,” Solas answers, watching her closely in return. “Once it dries, I will begin the main figures.”

  
“I’m looking forward to seeing it,” she says honestly. She glances down at the book cradled in her lap. The page is open to a written record of a gods’ council. It looks promising- so promising that she actually wants to send Solas away. She has an answer to chase, it’s within her reach and she desperately needs to have it! _He_ won’t tell her anything.

  
Still, if she shuts him out now, she might never coax him back. He has only just accepted their relationship. He would notice her acting strangely and his walls would return, higher and colder than ever. Regretfully, Lana marks her page with a scrap of ribbon. She doesn’t hear Solas walking around to the side of the divan or feel him bending over her.

  
His lips close over the tip of her ear, engulfing it in the warm wetness of his mouth. His heat is doubly intense on her chilled skin. She jumps, a gasp tearing out of her gut and her fingers seizing the divan’s arm. A flush covers her face and blooms like fire throughout her body. Her thoughts are chased willingly out of her head.

  
“Poor thing,” he says, his compassionate tone directly at odds with the lust of his lips against her ear. He sounds so kind and concerned that it’s practically art. His voice all but drips with sympathy. “You’re frozen. We must get you warm.”

  
He has been spending the nights with her lately. It seems he has gotten past his misgivings- or he is merely resigned to their relationship. It doesn’t necessarily make him easier to deal with. He is a needy and demanding lover. Once is almost never enough. Sometimes, she tunes out Josephine’s reports during the day and instead thinks up ways to thwart Solas in bed.

  
He has taught her to think of sex as a battle of wills. It’s a power game and every time she loses, she ends up completely at his mercy. He doesn’t even seem to be doing it on purpose. She pushes him to get through his walls. He pushes back on reflex, defending himself by using her senses against her. Powerful emotions drive his actions- desperation, despair, guilt, fury. She must be fierce and strong in order to steady him. There is no room for complacency.

  
They compete to see who is more persuasive, who has more pull on the other’s heart, who can think clearer faster.

  
It’s like he said. He only ever slept with his enemies- and Lana is dealing with the muted, repressed version of his skill. He holds himself back, ever aware of their difference in age. If he were to deliberately and actively seek to dominate her will, she doesn’t think she could last. He knows things, intoxicating tricks and dangerous games. Not only does Lana lack experience, she can’t even imagine Elvhenan’s level of insidious decadence.

  
He kisses her earlobe and she shudders. Even the memories that his touch invoke are disarming. Her inclination to keep reading becomes an inclination to have him sprawled across her bed. All her concerns for the world are overshadowed. Sex shouldn’t be like this. At least, she doesn’t think so. The pleasure is addictive to the point of being toxic.

  
What is it that makes her think she can manipulate such dangerous elements? She moves persistently forward as though her organized mind can save her from a fatal misstep. It can’t. Nonetheless, she makes the attempt. Is it a lack of alternatives…or arrogance?

  
She cannot afford to be misled by pride.

  
They wind up sitting in a tangle of blankets, Lana in Solas’s lap. She never has enough time to trace the angles of his face- or perhaps she is simply never satisfied. She drags her lips over his jaw line. She kisses the corners of his mouth. He runs his hands over her, caressing and kneading. He nuzzles at her neck. It’s tantalizing. She goes for his ear, nibbling the blade. He seizes her hips and groans, pulling her against him.

  
“Eager?” she asks breathlessly.

  
“There’s never time enough,” he says in a low exhale, echoing her own thoughts.

  
“I have to reap what I can from the Inquisition before its relevance expires,” Lana laments. She manages to worm her hands beneath his shirt and pull it off over his head. Then she has more of him to secretly adore. “With luck, I can at least put the world on the right track. Getting Leliana as Divine…”

  
“Getting her _out_ of the Inquisition,” Solas corrects her. “She’s the only one of your advisors who isn’t in awe of you. She’s the only one who will question your judgement. If there is something you truly wish to accomplish, her absence serves you twofold.”

  
“Huh,” Lana mutters in response, briefly distracted as he divests her of clothes. Her brain hasn’t been running on that kind of track. In her desperate rush to avert an apocalypse, she hasn’t thought to manipulate humankind. He does have a point though. The shemlen are convinced she’s some kind of prophet, despite her firm denials. Could she do something with that? Convince Celene to hand over the Dales? It doesn’t seem likely. Perhaps there’s not enough room in her head for more problems. Ancient elvhen is swimming in front of her eyes, as if the veil fire burned after images into her retina.

  
“Unless you have no other goals,” Solas adds, his focus turning to her breasts. “In that case, the Inquisition is a waste of time- and we should leave.”

  
“Leave?” She grins into his shoulder, running her hands over his back. “And do what? Search for memories in the Fade?”

  
“Lock ourselves in somewhere with enough food and water to last several years,” he suggests guilelessly. “We’d have a far better chance of sating our appetites with all other distractions removed. Then, we could simply enjoy the time we have left until…” He shakes his head then, trailing off. He covers his error by tugging at her pants.

  
“Until what?” she prompts him, staring at the sconces behind her bed.

  
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs distantly. “I have slept poorly of late. It has left my thoughts scattered.”

  
“Worrying yourself with dark, fatalistic ideas,” she infers, slipping off of his lap and onto the bed. He makes a bereft sound, releasing her with reluctance. “If only you had someone to confide in, to share your burdens and help you think…”

  
“I will confide in you,” he insists, looking ever more pensive. “As promised. Nothing I have to say is easy, however. It will be very painful…for both of us. I require time to brace myself.”

  
“Take all the time you need,” she says, shucking her pants the rest of the way off and easing herself onto the bed. She lays her head on his knee.

  
“Several years, ideally,” he proposes in a reasonable tone of voice.

  
“That’s a _bit_ too much, Solas,” she counters, tugging open the laces of his pants. “Let’s try counting in months.”

  
“Twenty-four,” he says at once.

  
She gets her hand around his length. Then she wraps her lips around the tip. She hears the breath he sucks in, his stomach contracting in response. “Say again?” she prompts and laves down the side of his member.

  
“Ah, that is,” Solas mutters, winded. He threads his fingers through her hair, holding it back for her. “I will tell you soon, my heart. As soon as I can bear to.”

  
Lana’s technique concerning oral application is basic. She does not, however, hesitate to ask Solas for instruction. Hearing his mellifluous voice falter and catch is mesmerizing. It’s also the perfect opportunity to rib him about his love of teaching. She asks him to elaborate when she needs clarification. Then she demonstrates her understanding.

  
She is warm from head to toe by the time they fall asleep. Her books lie forgotten on and around the divan. The fire has dwindled into darkness. They are twined close together and wrapped snugly in quilts.

  
She dreams of Solas for some time. He is striding through the Fade, hands clasped austerely behind his back. He gives orders to spirits. They hasten to carry his messages. They search the human lands for him, as well as the forgotten paths. They recount occurrences that no living mortal remembers. He makes his plans and weighs possibilities. Around him, energy flows in currents. It nets and weaves itself into the orb. It is drawn to the collected power within his chest, reinforcing and stabilizing. Ellana is pulled along with it, her mark stinging harshly as she sleeps.

  
She awakens in the middle of the night, drawn out of her dreams without any real transition. Solas is kissing the back of her neck and plucking at her naked body. She gives a sleep-fogged murmur and shifts, letting him slip between her legs. He holds her knee, entering her from behind. After a few languid thrusts, he pushes her down and drives her into the mattress. She gasps, water-logged thoughts surrendering to sensation. She pushes back against him, shuddering. They couple quickly, reaping pleasure in the tangle of sheets. The hazy satiation that follows is soporific. She dreams again.

  
When she awakens, she washes and gets dressed. It’s early but Solas is already gone. She goes to meet Josephine as scheduled.

  
The pattern repeats.

  
“Ellana,” Dorian says a few days later, catching her in the library and passing her a letter. “Does it sound like Magister Vires wants to one, kill me or two, use me as a pawn in an intricate power play and _then_ kill me?”

  
Dorian has begun planning his return to Tevinter. Apparently, this involves writing potential contacts. Lana scans the letter for him and says, “nah, he just wants to kill you.”

  
“Oh, good," Dorian enthuses. “I can’t stand it when they make things too complicated.”

  
She offers him a sympathetic smile and returns the letter. Then she goes to address the troops returning from the Arbor Wilds.

  
Lana considers what Solas said while speaking with her advisors. It’s true that she has formed connections with Cullen and Josephine. The commander takes her leadership as his focus, shutting out the crippling struggle of his lyrium addiction. The ambassador thinks Andraste herself follows Lana around in a glowing raiment of sunbeams. Only Leliana remains calculating, pragmatic and unreachable.

  
Lana doesn’t think she can take the Dales though. She has spent too much time fixing fragile Orlais to smash it to fragments of chaos. She is too invested in keeping all people safe, human or not. Grabbing for land would only cause death.

  
That evening, her books unequivocally confirm her theories. Up until today, there was always the chance that Lana jumped to conclusions. Solas could have taken the name ‘Pride’ from a memory he saw in the Fade. Perhaps he sought to mock the Dalish by stylizing himself as a historic figure they’ve forgotten. Now she eliminates that possibility.

  
The book she currently holds contains hundreds of written transcripts, each relaying official conversations between the gods. Amidst the usual talk of governance, Lana finds comments about Pride. A complaint of Sylaise’s suggests that, in five years she spent hosting him, Pride painted on every wall in her eastern wing. In reply, Mythal assured her that once he ran out of walls, he would start on the ceilings.

  
Lana finds another case in which Ghilan’nain ordered her disciples to procure artistic desserts. Apparently, the tome claims, she believed Pride would be more willing to collaborate with her if she catered first to his notorious sweet tooth.

  
Sharing a name is one thing. Sharing habits, skills and preferences is quite another. After Lana draws these connections, it is a simple matter to reconcile the written date with the Andrastian calendar. These records didn’t happen _exactly_ twenty thousand years ago. She thinks that, for a rough estimation, twenty thousand is close enough.

  
Twenty thousand years ago, he was powerful and prominent in a society of immortal beings. If she is to make some further guesses, Solas is twice that age. Possibly more.

  
After another several hours of reading, Solas appears in her room. They have a long conversation about the stylistic differences between human histories and elvhen ones. Aside from being written in Veil fire, elvhen histories are vastly more detailed. They were written for people who possessed a lot more time to read them. Then Solas shares his insights on the culture. Lana is fascinated by his words, even more so knowing they come from his personal memories. At the same time, she meticulously herds their discussion away from perilous topics.

  
One intelligent question is all it takes to get Solas talking for hours. It isn’t difficult at all to pretend her interest is academic. Let him stay relaxed. Let him fail to realize that she’s stalking him through the pages.

  
They end up writhing in bed together again. Solas is insatiable and Lana is easily tempted. Maybe he was being completely serious when he suggested they do nothing but fuck for several years. Either way, she can soon add physical exhaustion to the weariness of her brain. She lies sleepily in his arms, watching the firelight die.

  
“Solas,” she murmurs in the quiet. “You said that you’ll use the orb to save the People. Does your definition of 'saving' include anyone getting hurt?”

  
She expects an assurance from him, whether or not it’s the truth. Of course she does. Her only plan in asking was to determine the sincerity of his denial. Instead he says readily, "it _absolutely_ includes someone getting hurt,” and she jolts into full consciousness.

  
He feels her tense. “Seven people, to be exact,” he adds succinctly. "If they do not die terrible deaths, in fact, I couldn't possibly call my efforts successful."

  
“Who are they?” she asks, not moving her eyes from the wall.

  
“My enemies,” he answers in a soft tone of voice. He kisses the top of her head. “Now go to sleep.”

  
Perhaps he casts a spell because her eyelids grow heavy. She sleeps deeply and does not wake until morning. She’s alone save for a fantastical, childish suspicion. If Mythal was murdered, then only seven gods were locked away. Mythal is accounted for. There are nine gods in the pantheon and one of them remains. The idea gathers teeth in her subconscious and gnaws dully at the borders of her waking mind.

Lana is too old for Dalish fairy tales however. She is bitter and disillusioned. She is interested in realistic possibilities, not the petty scapegoats of frightened children. There is enough pain in the world without anthropomorphizing deceit. She dismisses the line of thought before it takes root in her mind.

  
She pours ice cold water into a basin and splashes her face with it.

  
The new day is much the same as the ones preceding it. She pores over reports of rifts with Cullen, deciding which area is most troubled and which course would take her efficiently through it. She drafts a speech to officially support Leliana’s nomination. She dines with Josephine and several Marcher nobles in the great hall. Afterward, she weaves her way through the crowd, thinking to go have a word with Dagna. The rogues in her team could use better runes. Then she sees Solas by the library stairs.

  
He is scowling at a stack of scrolls in his arms, his brow knitted in frustration. He is a mage doing scholarly things, dressed in unassuming clothes. No one pays him any mind today. They miss the grace of his movements and the poise in how he holds himself. They don’t see the energy seething beneath his skin, resonating in sync with his ire.

  
He glances up, eyes scanning the hall, and their gazes meet. Instantly, the heat in his eyes becomes hunger. Lana’s knees weaken, feeling suddenly boneless. A shiver runs down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms. She’s aching, every inch of her craving his touch. The last place she wants to go is the Undercroft.

  
She turns on her heel and heads down a side passage. She knows instinctively that he follows. She can feel it, as though with a sixth sense. She hastens to find a remote and unused room. Then, turning a corner, she catches sight of him stalking after her. He has abandoned his scrolls. Heat floods her stomach, turning her insides molten. She’s out of time. She settles for a broom closet. Just as she yanks open the door, he catches her.

  
He follows her into the closet and shuts the door behind them. Then he has her against the wall, one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her cries.

 

Objectively, Lana recognizes that she has a problem. The decadence and appeal of Solas’s nature distract her from the relevant dangers. She needs to keep her wits about her. Her wits are her greatest strength. The very last thing she should be doing is rearranging her schedule, drawing him into her afternoon. She has allocated this time for the Inquisition- especially since there is a war council in twenty minutes!

  
From a less analytical standpoint, she is beyond caring. Her fingers scrabble at the wall in search of a hand hold. Solas mouths at her ear, thrusting rapidly into her. She can’t catch her breath, not when every stroke hits that deep, delicious spot.

  
She doesn’t know how he can last. She can’t. She comes apart, easily undone, and he has to catch her as she sags in his grip. He puts his arm under her stomach, grasping her hip with his free hand. She braces one arm against the wall, panting.

  
“Creators,” she breathes, biting back a whimper.

  
“Why do you call for them?” Solas inquires, gently didactic, reasonable. His voice is in that paradoxical place between liquid smooth and darkly rough. The tongue of disaster is honeyed. “They cannot hear.”

  
Lana stumbles within her mind. It’s as if the ground has lurched beneath her. She doesn’t feel him. Her senses are eclipsed, shut out of her spinning brain. She repeats her earlier thoughts to herself but this time, she lets them run their course. If Mythal was murdered, only seven gods were locked away. Fen'Harel is left. Fen'Harel is missing from the present day scene and he is missing from the histories. Aside from Mythal, only seven gods have been mentioned in the tomes. Elgar’nan, Falon’din, Dirthamen, Andruil, Ghilan’nain, Sylaise and June, they are spoken of constantly.

  
Then there is Pride.

  
He didn’t tie himself down like the others. He was the storm that shook the foundation, the solitary voice that challenged precedent. He was fluid and free, magnetic and vibrant, wickedly clever and completely unpredictable. He was a war hero, a genius of magic and the quintessential infiltrator. Despite his ruthless strategies, his recorded actions are roguishly heroic. He was always saving forgotten groups of people or thwarting rulers’ cruel ambitions. Other times, it seems as though he fooled the gods just to remind them he _could_. His mocking vivacity survives in the tomes and it is the most chilling thing.

  
The best minds and strongest warriors could not rattle the gods’ iron grip…and yet Pride harried them for his own amusement. She knows this. She understands as much about his personality. How come she failed to make the connection straight away?

  
It should have been clear to Lana even from childhood that you don’t name someone ‘Traitor Wolf’ _before_ they’ve betrayed you. Pride meddled with the gods’ plans but whenever true dangers arose, he sided with the People. Among praises of his heroism, Lana found him labeled a nuisance, an idealist and even a plague. She never saw him labeled as an enemy of the empire. He wouldn’t be referred to as ‘Fen’Harel’ until Elvhenan’s final hours.

  
Solas finishes with a gasp and then eases her back upright. She plays her shell-shocked state off as post-coital bliss. Her mind is spinning on nonsense, on fantasies that can’t be true- but it won’t stop.

  
‘ _What if every terrible thing that’s ever happened to you was my fault?_ ’ he said. ‘ _For your mark, for the explosion and all the deaths that followed, for your people losing their homes and aging.’_

  
She remembers it. She thought nothing of it at the time.

  
She kisses Solas goodbye with half-lidded eyes, citing her meeting. He lingers, kissing her deeply and tucking her hair behind her ear. Once he is gone, she straightens her clothes with shaking hands. She’s thinking nonsense. Has she gone mad? She has already decided to put these silly, inaccurate legends behind her. Then again, how would Fen’Harel feel if he heard tales in which he was the villain?

  
Wouldn’t he feel slighted? Would he not resent the Dalish?

  
“I’ve gone mad,” she murmurs to herself. She doesn’t go to the war room. She heads for her quarters, catching one of the runners who is always around the hall. “Tell my advisors I’ve taken ill,” she bids him. He nods and hastens off. She retreats to her tower.

  
Instead of returning to the ancient tomes, Lana goes to her bookshelf. Her copy of Compiled Dalish Legends by Keeper Gisharel is well worn. She seizes it and carries it to her pile of veil fire books. Then she scatters the pile all over the floor of her room. In the middle of the mess, she seats herself. She finds the first Dalish legend that concerns Fen’Harel. Then she turns to the histories and looks for a match.

  
The process is called cross-referencing. It takes hours. Tick by tick, however, minute by minute, she begins to pair legend with record. Every tale has a grain of truth to it, they say. The stories of her people are warped, distorted and sparse. At their core, however, is a real event. So she finds it.

  
Ellana has an aptitude for methodical concentration. She sets herself to this task with single-minded purpose. She has read the histories twice and she relies heavily upon her memory of them. She traces the layout of the past, finding a place to put her fable. Some of the tales are combinations of two events, she thinks. She’s uncertain. She must draw on all her experience as a hobbyist historian. If not for the singular flavor of her people’s myths and the detailed nature of the histories, success would be impossible.

  
She finds possible matches for three of the fables about the Dread Wolf. By this point, it is late in the evening and she has entirely forgotten that Solas will come up the stairs.

  
Thus, she nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the door swing open. Hastily, she grabs up the histories, shutting them and putting them back into a stack. By the time he reaches her, she has them arranged nicely enough. He looks down at her with curious amusement, smiling fondly. She smiles warmly right back. They’re both such liars.

  
“Tired of posh, Orlesian furniture?” he infers.

  
“I didn’t have enough space to read all the books at once,” she explains.

  
“Yes, naturally,” he agrees, as if finding her seated on the floor is the most endearing thing he’s ever seen.

  
Then his eyes catch on the one book she didn’t put away. She sees instantly that he recognizes it: his affectionate humor vanishes, replaced by an affronted scowl. His mouth pulls down at the corners. His eyes flash with a bitter irritation. The very sight of the book offends him.

  
“ _Gisharel?”_ he asks incredulously. His magic pulls the book to him and he snatches it out of the air. “I give you a score of priceless works from the Vir Dirthara itself- and you’re reading Gisharel? And what secret wisdom, pray tell, lies hidden within this _trash_ that you cannot find in the People’s true writings?”

  
“Solas,” she says soothingly, raising her hands in a pacifying gesture. “Dalish legends are based off of elvhen history. I was only looking to see if we got anything right.”

  
“Allow me to spare you the trouble,” he returns with mock courtesy. “You _didn’t_.”

  
“Alright,” she says, exhaling a tense breath of air. She moves to take the book. “I’ll put it away for now.”

  
He steps casually out of her reach, as if by coincidence. He pretends to examine the book as he speaks. “If you’re bored enough to read this drivel,” he reasons, “you must need more books. I wish you had told me, vhenan. We can return to the library tonight. Why not take some cultural pieces this time?”

  
“It’s fine,” she tells him warily. “I’m still working on the histories.” He wanders away once more when she follows him. He steps out onto the balcony when she gives pursuit.

  
“This book was written by a child who could barely string sentences together,” Solas asserts. He stops moving when he reaches the balcony’s edge, finally letting her close the distance between them. “Rather than circulate it, he should have burned it in shame.”

  
“I understand,” Lana insists, reaching for the book, “so let me put it away.”

  
He holds it up over his head. She stretches on her toes for it then, unable to reach, fixes him with a level stare.

  
“You only have four bookshelves,” he coaxes, still in such a logical tone. “Keep books that are worth your time, books that advance your learning. I will put this one in the library for the shemlen to gawk witlessly at.”

  
“Just give it to me.”

  
He sighs, looking down in defeat. “As you wish, Inquisitor,” he concedes, starting to lower his arm.

  
Then he lets go of the book.

  
It falls promptly off the balcony. It plummets quickly out of sight, down thousands of feet into the icy mountains below. Solas widens his eyes and throws a surprised glance over his shoulder. “Whoops…”

  
Lana grimaces, scrubs a hand over her eyes and turns away. It’s not actually a loss. Gisharel is a common, easily-acquired piece of writing. She can get another copy simply by going downstairs. Really, she just wishes she had an explanation for why he hates it so much other than that he’s _Fen’Harel_ and he’s _angered_ _by_ _its_ _portrayal_ _of_ _him_.

  
She startles for the second time that evening when Solas catches her elbow.

  
“My heart,” he says and he sounds _devastated_. “I am so sorry. My fingers slipped! It’s difficult to grip things properly in this cold. How can I make it up to you?”

  
She turns back to him and realizes with a sinking feeling that he _looks_ devastated too. His eyes brim with remorse. It’s not a cheap play act. It’s not a lie Leliana could spot during an interrogation.

  
It isn’t real either. Lana knows that it’s not. He dropped the book on purpose. This, however, is the same sorrowful expression he dons at the sight of human suffering. This is the same tone in which he laments soldiers lost and innocents slain. It seems as real as his grief at the death of Wisdom.

  
So how many displays of sorrow were faked?

  
How many of his apologies have been false?

  
If Lana cannot tell the difference _now_ between his true emotions and his lies, now when he scarcely bothered to set the stage, how can she know anything?

  
He cradles her face in his hands and kisses her. She stands still with her hands at her sides. He draws back after moment, gaze flitting across her face.

  
“You are actually upset,” he determines quietly. He releases her quickly and turns away. “Forgive me, I did not think…You can be quite difficult to read. I failed to realize how much the book mattered.”

  
The book is the last thing she’s upset about.

  
Solas, however, has already made up his mind. “I will go and fetch it for you,” he decides. In an instant, his form melts before her eyes, folding in on itself as many shadows. In his place is a falcon, taking wing without touching the ground. The raptor dives off the balcony, down into the frozen valley.

  
Numbly, Lana looks over the edge. She doesn’t see him. The drop is too steep and the hour too late. There is only whiteness. She turns back, looking at the bright firelight and candles of her room. There isn’t a chance she’ll still be here when he returns. She needs to think; she needs it desperately. In these caging walls full of human things, she can’t even breathe. She goes and finds her boots, her gloves, her heavy cloak and her weapon.

  
She does not usually go hiking at night. Nonetheless, Lana knows the area around Skyhold quite well. She has descended down the mountain and set off in a dozen different directions. She has walked the paths merely for pleasure, to get away from the static lifestyle of her allies.

  
She travels where the snow is thin, making little noise. Her ears absorb the sounds of the mountain, the whistling moan of the wind. She pulls her cowl over her head and wraps a scarf over her nose and mouth. She hears a wolf howling far in the distance. She shudders violently.

  
A snow storm is brewing. She can taste that much in the frigid air. It’s cold but it won’t be bad if she finds shelter from the wind and starts up a fire. She has no ability right now to return. Instead, she walks faster.

  
There are ancient statues among the Frostbacks, just as there are statues everywhere. The owls, the dragons and the wolves make more sense now that she knows Skyhold is elvhen. She passes them by, ascending. The muscles in her legs burn from the climb. Her lungs fight to breathe the thin air. Her feet ache but they are snug and warm in fur-lined boots. The leather is water-proofed. Human ingenuity is good for something.

  
She has walked miles, both up and away, before she stops to think. What on earth is she going to do? This isn’t real, is it? She weighs the validity of her points, the value of her evidence. She makes lists in her head of damning, telltale signs. Solas is Fen’Harel. It makes perfect, irrefutable sense. It also makes no sense at all.

  
It’s possible that she can rationalize this in her head. So many things Solas has said lead her to the conclusion. Everywhere she goes for reference, the facts fit. On the other hand, how could she say it out loud? How could she tell anyone?

  
The most tactful of her allies would tell her she’s jumping at shadows. Fen’Harel from her silly, _Dalish_ stories? Fen’Harel, the evil trickster wolf? Could she possibly tell her advisors that the Breach was the prank of an idle god?

  
Oh, her soul- that’s what Solas meant. ‘ _You think I act out of some deranged love of disaster?’_ he said. ‘ _You think I’m laughing inside?_ ’

  
She clutches her head and grits her teeth. It’s true and it’s obvious but she’ll never be able to say it.

  
The storm is getting bad. She squints at the path but she only knows vaguely where she is. Skyhold is behind her and to the right. She just isn’t directly familiar with this part of the mountain. She squints around her for a place to hide from the wind. It takes some searching. She has to backtrack a bit. Finally, she spots one- and it fills her with a sinking feeling. There’s a giant statue of Fen’Harel on the mountain’s edge, facing away from Skyhold.

  
She trudges up the path and seats herself behind it.

  
The statue really is enormous and it effectively blocks out the wind. She rests in the cold for a minute, catching her breath and curling beneath her cloak. When her lungs have pumped in enough air, she gathers together broken branches. She takes a mass of twigs from her pocket to use as kindling. Then she starts a fire.

  
She warms her hands, sitting close to the fire on the hard ground. Fen’Harel has the orb but the orb was probably his to begin with. He is making a defense system so that Thedas can survive the destruction of the Veil. Why would he do that? If someone was going to destroy the Veil, surely it would make more sense that he’d try to stop them. He helped stop Corypheus, after all. Does that mean he _wants_ the Veil destroyed?

  
Lana feels a sudden urge to pray. Viciously, she crushes it. What does she know of the gods? She’s met two of them and they are both terrifying. Thinking of them makes her want to weep. Perhaps she’ll convert to Andrastianism then. Cassandra would be so happy.

  
“What am I going to do?” she breathes to herself.

  
Did Solas ever plan to tell her? Or was that all a sham? It doesn’t make sense for it to _all_ be a lie…but perhaps that’s Lana’s failure of imagination. Perhaps she simply can’t see the design, being the pitiful mortal she is.

  
She exhales harshly and looks away from the fire. The howling wind is the only sound. Still, she’s not that far away from it all. She can see Skyhold’s glittering candlelight and even her own tower in the far distance. Honestly, it’s funny she’s never noticed this statue from her balcony view.

  
Then her heart sinks like a rock. She replays that thought in her head several times. She can’t remember seeing the statue. She’s looked this direction before, hasn’t she? This is the culmination of her paranoia, the inchoate terror that has plagued her since Corypheus’s death. Fear runs wild in her mind, leading her imagination to unthinkable possibilities. The world makes no attempt to soothe her. It's dark and it's cold and snow covers everything.

  
The vast shape behind her _is_ just a statue, isn’t it?

  
She dares a glance at the wolf’s silhouette. It’s a snow-dusted shadow against a black, cloud-choked sky. It’s slightly smaller than a dragon but easily four times the size of a great bear. She’s never heard tales of him being a _giant_ wolf. Surely, he would be a normal-sized one, were he here.

  
“I’ve gone mad,” she whispers. She uncurls her body, prying herself up off the ground. She goes to the statue, staring resolutely at its back. She pulls off her glove and her fingers tremble. It’s nothing but stone. He would not lie there, his head held straight, his tail curled around his paws with snow collecting on his back. It’s perfectly fine to touch him.

  
She closes the distance. She puts her fingers to the wolf’s back-

  
\- and feels fur.

  
Lana flinches so violently that she falls backward onto the ground. Her fire burns feebly beside her, providing its insufficient light. She shuts her eyes tight and sets her jaw. She has seen such horrors. She has held fast to composure through such nightmares. This one is just closer, more persuasive and a thousand times worse. This is the oldest fear, taught to her before she could walk. She cannot hear over the pounding of her own heart.

  
“I’m sorry…Solas…” She rasps out finally. It is so difficult to speak. “I…didn’t realize…you were there.”

  
“Ir abelas.” His voice is quiet. She almost misses it in the wind. “It wasn’t my intention to frighten you. I spotted you from the sky then followed on foot. You noticed me before I had time to change my shape.”

  
Then the wolf moves, breaking his motionless vigil. His muscles shift and his black coat ripples. Snow is dislodged from his back as he turns his great head. Firelight gleams on his eyes, then upon a second pair that opens above them, then on a third pair below. He lifts one enormous paw, revealing a smashed, half-frozen book.

  
“Gisharel fared poorly,” he reports. That familiar, melodic voice comes from between sharp and jagged teeth. “I will get you another copy.”

  
“That’s alright,” Lana tells him numbly, willing her lips to move. “Like you said, it’s all nonsense.” It isn’t bravery that allows her to meet his six-eyed gaze. His stare holds her in place. She cannot look away. “Is this what you had to tell me?”

  
“It seems you already knew,” he returns. His tail flicks and curls around him, disproportionately long. “But no. This is a mere piece.”

  
“We might as well get it all over with at once,” she suggests faintly.

  
“If that is your wish,” he says. He shifts again, moving to face her. “I will tell you everything on one condition.” Six eyes study her face. They’re the color of a cloudy sky. They’re not a wolf’s eyes. They're not a person's eyes either.  “You must not react to anything I say," he barters. "Do you understand, Inquisitor? No emotion, no change in your speech, no flinching…no tears.”

  
“Alright,” she says, “tell me.”

  
“I take my bargains seriously,” he warns her. "Break your promise at your own peril."

  
She shakes her head. “Tell me.”

  
“Ma nuvenin,” he concedes behind an unknowable lupine face. The fire casts curls of smoke into the air. Snow falls down in a steady curtain. “Let’s see," says Fen'Harel. "I told you before that I grew up in a village to the north? Well. That was a lie.”

  
She listens to his tale, seated fully in the Dread Wolf’s gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This vague Lavellan is getting a bit difficult for me. I need character details. It doesn't matter what character details as long as I have some. So, I figured, hey, it's a player character. I'll just ask you guys! :D
> 
> Is she a mage, warrior or rogue? Let me know what you'd prefer. If I get some answers from you, I'll go with the most common one after two weeks. If I don't...I guess I'll use dice? Lol.
> 
> Update: Thank you guys so much for your feedback! Mage seems to be the popular choice with nine votes. Thus, a mage she shall be. :) Everyone had great ideas though and I'm grateful how much thought you put in.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He didn’t want a body but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face.” - Cole, Trespasser DLC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought Solas's Endless Explanations were endless before, wait until you read this one. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the feedback and support!
> 
> (Also, results of Lavellan's class decision can be found in previous chapter notes.)

“ _Mythal_ grew up in a village to the north.”

  
Ellana cannot feel the wind anymore. She cannot feel the cold. She sits unmoving on the ground beside the fire. It’s almost like when she was a child, listening to Keeper Deshanna or the hahrens. Except it’s nothing like that.

  
“Now this was too far in the past to measure. The times you call ancient? It was ancient in _them_. The People were still young. The marvelous arts and abilities they came to master were yet unknown to them. There were no shemlen. None had encountered the Children of Stone. The People struggled in a world of wild magic, fragile and few.”

  
It’s odd that the shape of his mouth has no effect on his speech. He delivers this tale in the same fashion he’s told stories time and time again. His words are quiet and gentle, subtly rich and possessed of a melodic cadence. She’d expect such a fine rhetoric to catch on his sharp teeth or roughen in the maw of his throat.

  
“The People, however, were not without neighbors. The Fade was a part of the world in those times, an integral aspect of nature itself. Thus, they were watched and reflected by spirits. In turn, spirits shared memories and guided them through their dreams.”

  
Six eyes blink closed in tandem, then open once more.

  
“And this, of course, was the manner in which I met Mythal."

  
Lana doesn’t know what time it is or how long she has been out in the snow. She’s forgotten which mountain she’s on. She cannot recall her schedule for tomorrow. Everything but Solas and his story has ceased to exist. She dips her head, acknowledging the words.

  
“Then…you were a spirit…?”

  
“I was a mere wisp in my earliest memories,” he confides. “I drifted. I observed and explored. The People caught my attention with their accomplishments. They overcame great tribulations to protect each other and better their small societies. They worked tirelessly, selflessly and with innovative cleverness. I felt that their potential was… great and _extraordinary!_ I was delighted every time it bore fruit.”

  
“Pride,” Lana concludes. “You were Pride.”

  
“I was the embodiment of an emotion,” he specifies, patient and teaching and vast. His shadowy form fills her vision, blotting out the snow-choked night. “Pride can lead to oversight. It is also a form of love, the recognition of effort and sacrifice, the appreciation of beautiful creations. It keeps the People standing tall when their enemies try to break them. It is the spine of bravery and the fire in determination. Before the Veil, Pride was not so easily corrupted.”

  
His tail swishes through the snow behind it, restless.

  
“Mythal brimmed with more talent than most, even at an early age. I gravitated to her naturally, recognizing a kindred soul. She reaped much use of my suggestions, the cleverness I gradually honed. In turn, her successes intensified me and gave me complexity. She became a warrior, then a hero, then a leader. She felt not only pride in herself but pride in the People. She was strong for them but she also imbued them with strength.”

  
“You were childhood friends,” she asserts in the eerily silent world.

  
“We are _lifelong friends_ ,” he corrects her.

  
This isn’t a campfire lesson in a Dalish clan. The story is less important than the speaker and this speaker is infamously two-faced. She tries to decide which pair of his eyes to look at and settles for the middle two. He is seated but he is so large that she must crane her neck back to hold his gaze. If her clan even glimpsed this unnatural scene, they would flee.

  
Never make deals with Fen’Harel. Da’lens are taught this from birth.

  
Lana spends her life consuming information, however, and using it to acquire and implement resources. She analyzes problems and thinks of ways to solve them. She adapts to hardship even if it means reconfiguring her own mind, even if it means grinding her heart into pulp. She processes what’s in front of her and she responds to it.

  
She cannot stop. She cannot resist. She desires knowledge with a craving akin to lust. She would consider answers to these secrets from any mouth. 

  
“With my counsel and aid, Mythal achieved great things,” Solas continues. “She mastered the trials before her, forging a path for others to follow. Wisdom came to us later along the way. It pointed out things that we, in our certainty, missed. The perspectives and feelings of our enemies, for instance. Sometimes our opponents weren’t malicious. Sometimes they were scared or distrustful or misinformed. Once Wisdom helped us learn, Mythal was able to turn some enemies into allies. The others she felled all the more quickly by understanding their vulnerabilities.”

  
“And this is the same Wisdom we tried to save?” Lana guesses grimly.

  
“Yes,” he says. His voice has the familiar softness of grief. Instead of evoking sympathy, it only makes her shiver. “Wisdom and I were Mythal’s closest and most personal advisors. I was her oldest friend. I watched her turn a village into a kingdom, overcoming every obstacle in her path. That kingdom, in turn, became an empire. It contained the most enlightened culture, the most beautiful arts, the most innovative science and the most powerful warriors. What could be more worthy of pride?

  
“By this point, I was very, _very_ strong. Mythal’s love for the People was fierce and vivid. The People in turn became confident in themselves. This was the emotion to which I had sculpted myself and as it grew, so did I. Across the world in any direction, I could see no spirit more powerful than I was. I loved the accomplishments of the People and I whispered to them, urging them to be clever, to conquer the obstacles in their path. When they succeeded, they could then take pride in themselves.

  
“All of it fed me. I was the empire’s identity, rhythm and soul.”

  
“But eventually you took on a body,” Lana prompts quietly. “Like Cole did?”

  
“That is correct,” Solas affirms again, “well done. It was a rare choice, even at the peak of Elvhenan’s glory. Nearly all spirits wished to interact with the living- but there was nothing preventing them from doing so. Scholarly spirits lectured in libraries and experienced learning with students. Valor, Courage and Rage fought as comrades with the People. Curiosity accompanied wanderers. Inspiration touched playfully at the dreams of artists. They didn’t need a physical form to be what they were. Neither did I.

  
“The empire was too vast, however, for one mage to rule. Many of the lands were governed by Mythal’s children. Mythal's children were exceptional, of course. I truly believe our culture would have been lesser, even crippled, without them. Unlike Mythal, unfortunately, their paths were chosen for them. In this absence of freedom, selfishness took root. You’ll recall, I told you of Falon’din when we went to Mythal’s temple. My role changed because of the war he waged.

  
“Mythal spent too long attempting to reason with him. Things soon became dire. It was then that she asked me to cross into the waking world, to become one of the People…and to fight for her. It was a transformation that could not be undone. Nonetheless, I agreed. I took on this body and this appearance, here as I am before you. You can guess the rest, I believe.”

  
“You defeated Falon’din,” says Lana.

  
“Indeed,” Solas replies, “though Mythal’s method of dealing with her children was never to slay them. She broke and remade them whenever they grew too wild. Falon’din’s desires simply could not be met and he was too powerful to conveniently imprison. Instead, the Evanuris- those you call the gods- devised a way to split his personality, power and essence in half. Thus, Dirthamen came about and Dirthamen stabilized him.”

  
Lana’s breath catches in her throat, the revelation hitting her hard. So that’s what it was? She has a million questions and not enough time to filter them through a stoic veneer. Her fascination begins to eclipse her fear. Knowledge is the greatest of her desires and finally, he shares it. She has hungered for so long. He continues to speak and Lana’s face stays blank.

  
“I remained as Mythal’s follower for some time,” he says. “Eventually, it became obvious that my wits could better serve the empire in independence. There were too many things I could not do in Mythal’s name. Thus, I engineered a spell with which to remove the Vallaslin. I burned Mythal’s symbol off of my face and left. Together, we established the fiction that I, her greatest lieutenant, had gone rogue. From that point on, I curbed the harsher tendencies of the Evanuris and Mythal remained innocent of my actions. We came at them from two directions, those of order and chaos, and between us, they were controlled.”

  
He shifts and his claws bite into the mountain beneath him.

  
“It worked very well for a time. We had a golden age! In the People’s terms, this spanned tens of thousands of years. Finally, the Evanuris grew sick of limitations and conspired to murder Mythal. A weapon was created and with it, she was slain.”

  
“The gods murdered Mythal?” Lana repeats. This time, she almost slips. Her voice comes calm but halting. She is horrified. He speaks of her childhood heroes. Though fatally injured, her sentimentality has yet to completely die.

  
“Elgar’nan is innocent of the crime,” Solas informs her. “Not to say that he is innocent. In his grief and rage at her death, he senselessly slaughtered thousands. No one could stop him. Now the conspirators, I am quite certain, were Mythal’s children. Falon’din and Sylaise contributed to the creation of the weapon. It was Andruil who struck Mythal down. A war soon followed, of course. June joined with Sylaise out of loyalty. Ghilan’nain would follow Andruil to the Void. Dirthamen saw no logic in avenging Mythal. I was alone.”

  
“You fought them,” she prompts quietly. The story is now going as she expects.

  
“Mythal’s people rallied to me,” he answers, “as did those who feared the Evanuris’s mad ambitions. Their numbers increased by the day. Under the guise of restoring order and protecting people from Elgar’nan’s wrath, the so-called gods took slaves. Anyone without a patron was free for their taking. I could tell you of magical horrors, the unthinkable powers they dealt in and the monsters they wrought. I will spare you the unpleasantness. You have seen nightmares enough already.

  
“The Hellathen survived for a time,” he continues. “I knew the Evanuris well and without Mythal’s loyalties to check me, I mercilessly exploited their weaknesses. It was a terrible and bloody struggle, however. No matter what I did, we were outmatched. I found powerful allies in the Nameless Ones, for I had maintained ties with them despite their banishment. Still, I lost ground and the People slowly lost themselves.

  
“The Evanuris would have done anything to finally destroy me but I could not relent. Finally, when their madness threatened the very world, I told them I planned to surrender. I bid them meet me in the Deep Fade, the empty realm beyond dreams. Then, when they quit this world, I created the Veil.”

  
“The Veil is just a spell,” she says. She is utterly shocked but no one would know it from looking at her.

  
“The Veil is a spell,” Fen’Harel concurs, dipping his great head, “a massive, self-perpetuating enchantment I engineered for the purpose of imprisoning my enemies. It was also a terrible option, a desperate last resort. The Dalish wonder how elves began aging? It was my doing. Forcibly separating you from the world of dreams gradually caused cell deterioration, a change in essence, a terminal disease. As for Elvhenan, so many of our structures and utilities required magic that the sudden dampening of all magical power was catastrophic. You saw the remains of the Vir Dirthara.”

  
“Yes,” Lana murmurs, gingerly wrapping her mind around the tragedy. “I understand now.”

  
“The world is broken. The worst damage goes entirely unnoticed by those of this time. Spirits can no longer interact peacefully with the waking. The Veil makes them easily corrupted and easily driven mad. No culture today sees them as people or values their existence. Once, however, they were more than demons. They were guides and teachers and friends. I destroyed them more utterly even than I destroyed the elves.”

  
“Your reasoning is clear, Solas,” Lana assures him, trying to see the thoughts behind his six eyes. “You had no other choice.”

  
“Perhaps,” the wolf allows. “That Mythal survived, whatever her form, gives me hope. Nonetheless, the future remains. I never once intended to leave the world in this state. I descended into Uthenera to harvest dreams. Without the Evanuris, the energy of the Fade was mine alone to gather. Thousands of years passed in which I forged the orb. With its power, I intended to tear down the Veil, slay the Evanuris and rebuild Elvhenan anew.”

  
“But Corypheus discovered your place of slumber,” she infers next, feeling as though everything has fallen into place. “He stole the orb from you.”

  
“No,” Solas refutes, bringing her assumptions to a jarring halt. “The Veil made awakening difficult. The orb had accumulated incredible power during my sleep. When at last I opened my eyes, I was too weak to unlock it. I traveled this world and assessed the destruction I’d wrought. I saw nothing worth preserving. When my agents told me of Corypheus, I decided not to waste more time. I surrendered the orb and allowed the Venatori to locate it.”

  
Lana sits mutely in the snow and does not move. He speaks in the same, quiet manner he began with. His half dozen eyes give nothing away. Nonetheless, he is confessing to a war crime so terrible it makes Blackwall look like a pickpocket.

  
She has no words. She has horror and grief and agony. He was right there outside the Conclave, _waiting!_ He had _known!_ He brought it about, he triggered those events and he did nothing to stop them. It was mass murder that rippled outward in an ever expanding disaster. Solas, her only love, is the one who caused everything. She cannot speak because she cannot possibly control her voice.

  
She stares back at him blankly and says nothing.

  
“Corypheus should have died unlocking the orb,” Solas continues. “I did not expect that a darkspawn magister would have discovered the secret to effective immortality. In this, my decision proved to be a terrible mistake. The orb was very nearly lost to me because of it. It would have been, if not for you.”

  
Something in Lana’s soul crystallizes violently, hardening around her pain. Fury seethes beneath her skin with such incandescence that it produces pure serenity. When she speaks, her voice is perfectly smooth. “It was a mistake because you murdered hundreds of innocent people.”

  
“I know,” he tells her gently. “I failed to see it at first. When I awoke…it was like entering a world of Tranquil. The spirits were insane and the people were ignorant. They were closed to learning and they shunned new ideas. In my pride, I assumed that the damage was already done. Their great value was lost. _You_ showed me that I was wrong.”

  
She wants to close her eyes but it would look too much like emotion. “You sacrificed them before you even knew their worth. You should have been patient. You should have looked more closely.”

  
“You sound like Wisdom,” he says.

  
They sit in silence for a moment.

  
“I regret my choice more than anything now.” Pair by pair, his six eyes scrunch shut. Some of the poise seeps from his hulking black form. “If it is any consolation to you, know that I suffer because of it. My terror is constant. My grief drives me to despair. I have shrieked and clawed at my face but doing so lends me no peace. At the moment, it looks as though the Temple of Sacred Ashes will deal me a permanent and personal injury. An eternity from now, my dreams will still be nightmares.”

  
“Because you killed them?”

  
“Because I killed _you_.”

  
Ellana stares at the darkness of his fur. The fury is draining out of her, replaced by numbness. There is nothing to do but wait for his eyes to open again.

  
“The Mark,” Solas confesses brokenly. His head sags onto his paws, his shoulders hunching. “It is lethal. Only I could have born it and lived. The Veil, my magic, has been killing you from the moment you first drew breath. Now, I have put a poison in your very soul. You will not die of aging. You lack even that much time.”

  
“How long?” she says without inflection.

  
“Seven years, eight?” he hazards. “But only if we amputate your arm. Otherwise, you will be lucky to live another three.”

  
A map of Thedas swims in her mind’s eye, little markers placed upon every Fade rift her scouts have discovered.

  
“I’d best get going then,” she concludes distantly. “Without my arm, I won't be able to close the rifts. I have to take care of them more quickly than I thought.”

  
“Oh, my heart, no,” he grieves, “do not waste your time. I am going to _tear down the Veil._ Closing the rifts would be pointless. I knew what Corypheus would do with my orb, you see. The surest reason I didn’t care was because this mortal world would be destroyed regardless. Your fragile bodies are no longer acclimated to the energy of the Fade. I estimate thirteen percent of humans, Qunari and mortal elves will die from exposure. The magic resistance of dwarves should spare them. Of the remaining populace, however, most will be torn apart by demons. Every spirit will be freed simultaneously, crashing suddenly into this world. The young ones, still coming into themselves, will lose their minds in the process. The ones that have already been corrupted will immediately attack. No mortal nation of Thedas can survive such an onslaught.”

  
“But you’re making a defense system,” she points out softly. “Shields for the most heavily populated areas.”

  
Fen’Harel’s six eyes snap open. “Clever thing,” he praises her with surprise. “How do you know? You understood my notes?”

  
“I used the resources available to me,” she says.

  
“Your comprehension of our language has improved exponentially,” he remarks. “I did not think it possible for a child to learn with such speed. Is that how you matched me to my past? You found me in the histories?”

  
She gives a nod.

  
“It never crossed my mind that you would glean so much from them. By now, I shouldn’t be surprised when you exceed my expectations.”

  
This is a turning point. Lana recognizes the pivotal importance of this conversation. Solas did indeed engineer a means of preserving the mortal world. When she initially spoke to him about it, however, he didn‘t seem to have any intention of using it.

  
No matter what, right now, she _must_ convince him.

  
“You have to tear down the Veil,” Lana acknowledges, sinking so deep into a state of diplomacy that nothing he says could shake her. “Spirits _are_ people and until you fix the world, they suffer endlessly. Once the Fade returns to its original state, they won’t be so easily corrupted, will they?”

  
“That is correct,” he affirms, “though it may take up to a century for them to calm down.”

  
“The whole conflict between regular people and mages,” she points out, “comes from the dangers of possession. It’s long term but if you tear down the Veil, eventually mages will endanger no one.”

  
He watches her solemnly.

  
“With this in mind, it is not unrealistic for Thedas and the Inquisition to support your efforts,” she continues. “When you tear down the Veil, we can just blame it on the gods. Let’s say…the Breach weakened the Veil and because of it, the Evanuris managed to escape. Under this premise, I can unite the human nations to fight on your side. I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do- but I think protecting us is in your best interest.”

  
“Remarkable, really.” He sits back on his haunches and, despite the ease of the movement, towers over her. Then his body melts inward, dissolving into shadows that form the shape of an elf. He wears the same clothes she last saw him in. He has no hood or scarf for the snow. He still has six eyes, however. She stares at the surreal vision; the upper and lower pair of eyes close slowly. Then they disappear. Only then does his face look normal.

  
It’s haunting.

  
“I have confessed to mass murder,” he recounts, sinking down to kneel in the snow before her. Their eyes draw level. “I have informed you of your imminent death. I have explained the disaster about to occur and why it is necessary. Despite it all, your only thought is to forge an alliance and save your people.”

  
He is himself again, the collected and eloquent hahren she fell in love with. She cannot keep her precious concept of him separate. She cannot keep it safe. Her idea of Solas shatters and warps, merged with the shadow of a wolf. It becomes stained red by massacres and embittered by the horrors of war. Now that he wears an elven face, she can read his expressions. She realizes that his composure up until now was a flimsy mask. Behind it, she sees oceans of pain.

  
He reaches tentatively out, brushing the back of his hand across her face. His fingers are warm.

  
“As if I wouldn’t want to accept,” he murmurs, “ _my heart_. It is only a question of whether or not I have the resources. The defense system will require several weeks of the orb’s power before it has accumulated enough of its own to be self-sustaining. Immediately after the Evanuris are released, however, I will likely require the orb to fight them. There is no comparison between these beings and Corypheus. They are intelligent, brilliant even. They are older and their strategies are consecutively masterful. The more time I give them to dig themselves in, the more dangerous they shall become. Specifically, I must destroy Andruil, Ghilan’nain, Falon’din and Dirthamen with as much haste as possible.”

  
“I understand the complications,” Lana returns. “Please allow me to search for a solution. My people may suffer limitations but we have uncovered many potential resources. It may be that we can find an alternative power source for the system. The Titan we encountered may possibly be an option. In a state of absolute desperation, we could also endeavor to find a safe way of harnessing the power of red lyrium. I believe we can be of use without hindering your efforts.”

  
“Those ideas merit investigation,” Solas agrees slowly. He is looking strangely at her face however, creases around his eyes. “Still, my first inclination is to meet with Mythal. You told me that she took an ancient soul from Morrigan’s son. I would like to see whether she has collected others and if so, how many. I must also assess her condition. I have sent spirits to locate her. Will you come with me to meet her when they return?”

  
“Assisting you in any way possible would be a great honor,” says Lana. “I will do everything in my power to prove we deserve your mercy. Thank you for giving us this chance.”

  
Solas goes still. She knows instantly that she has done something terribly wrong. He does not move an inch, not to back away or to retract his fingers from her face. Only his eyes change. It’s as though the calm within them has shattered. Through these windows, Lana watches his composure dissolve violently. It drowns in the storm of emotion behind it. She finds herself looking into a tempest. The lightning and hail within threaten to shred her soul.

  
She doesn’t understand his reaction. A lack of understanding is the loss of control. Lana holds his terrible, ancient gaze and feels like she is falling.

  
“Forgive me,” she attempts, clinging with all her strength to a tactful tone of voice. “Have I given cause for offense?”

  
“You promised me,” he reminds her in a whisper that chills her blood. “And why do you think I requested such a bargain? I required time to brace myself and _I did not receive it._ You were not to change the way you speak to me.”

  
It dawns on her then- but too late. Her awareness of his power increased. Consecutively, she spoke to him as though he holds millions of lives in his hands. _He does_. She spoke to him as though he is an ancient and immeasurably dangerous being whose inclinations determine the fate of the world. _He is._ That, however, was a change of speech. She came to him from the position of a leader, negotiating for her people’s lives. If he’d refused outright, she would have _begged_.

  
“How dare you?” he asks with terrible softness. “‘Share your burdens with me, you said, depend on me- _trust me!’_ So you will treat me as a monster to _appease_ after you called me your one love?”

  
“I didn’t mean-”

  
Like lightning, his hand shifts and clamps over her mouth. His eyes are wide and in them, she sees torment. His fingers are tight around her jaw, smothering any chance for words. His face is contorted in pain. The angle of his jaw is agonized. She can only look back at him, trembling and descending into panic.

  
What should she do? What _can_ she do?

  
He looks at her, stricken. He slowly shakes his head as if denying the sight before him. Then, with his other hand, he covers her eyes.

  
Darkness encloses her vision. She sits with her hands lying numbly on her lap. She hears the fire snapping beside her and distantly, the howl of the wind. She hears her own, ragged breaths rasp in and out through her nose.

  
Solas’s hands shift, trading places as he rises and moves behind her. He pulls her back against his chest, still tightly covering her eyes and her mouth. A small sound escapes her, muffled against his palm. He exhales as if he’s been punched in the stomach. He lays his cheek against the top of her head. Then he settles into stillness and does not move again.

  
Lana waits, scarcely daring to breathe. She feels light-headed, adrenaline flooding her veins. The seconds crawl by, followed by minutes. She shivers beneath her thick cloak. Solas is warm at her back. Time passes slowly and she counts it in beats of her gradually calming heartbeat. It takes a considerable while for her to contemplate moving. She is terrified of provoking him again.

  
First she tries to carefully extract herself from his grasp. He is gripping her tightly however, his hands fixed securely over her face. Trying to shift forward gets her nowhere. Next, she brushes her fingers against his leg. When he doesn’t react, she runs her palm over the fabric at his thigh. It elicits no change in him.

  
How long has it been? She cannot hear the fire anymore. She stares at the blackness of Solas’s palm, fighting a second wave of disquiet. For hours, she doesn’t dare to do more than nudge him.

  
What does this mean? Will he change his mind about searching for a compromise? What does Fen’Harel do to people who fail their ends of a bargain? She thinks back on the histories but there is no perfect comparison. Then she thinks back on her people’s legends.

  
She could pull at his hands. There is only so much leverage for fingers upon a jaw. The weakness is in the bend of the thumb. She has dislodged so many grips since joining the Inquisition. Magic is never enough in combat. She relies just as often on her agility and her enemies’ physical vulnerabilities.

  
She could also reach for her staff. She left it lying beside her small fire. She cannot reach it from here but she can pull it to her with magic.

  
These actions, of course, are stronger forms of provocation. She cannot best him in combat and that is a fact. She also doesn’t know if the situation merits combat. He wouldn’t harm her…would he? It’s an ironic thing to wonder; her possession of the Anchor is the result of _his_ actions. The slow arrow that kills her is his.

  
She tries to wait. She waits and she waits, fighting off a claustrophobic sense of imprisonment. This is all her fault. How could she mess up so badly? She should have reasoned with him from the standpoint of a lover. The only power she has over him, to prevent him from sacrificing the world, to influence his decisions, is _emotional leverage_. She should have made her rhetoric intimate! She should have suggested they find a path together, emphasizing her support of him, her love and her forgiveness.

  
These thoughts are logical but they shake her badly. Behind the restraints of her lover’s hands, she weeps. His palm is a cup for her tears.

  
How could he have killed all those people? How could he have seamlessly lied, playing himself off as a source of help? She remembers him laughing with Varric, teasing Cassandra about cleaning up ‘human messes.’ The mess was his. It destroys her.

  
Nothing else he confessed hurts her like this. Elvhenan’s destruction was horrifying but understandable. He had no other choice. She can see that. The Mark causing her death is dismally unimportant. No one who risked their lives to stop Corypheus would be upset by such an end. The Mark gave her the power to help. It was worth the price.

  
If she can stop this, if she can get Thedas through a war between gods, she will have no regrets.

  
She reaches up and tugs on Solas’s wrist.

  
“I will not release you,” says Fen’Harel, startling her badly. She didn’t expect a response. “This is your penitence.”

  
The words are not a threat. They are absolute and remote. He is stating a fact. A surge of raw frustration fills her. It’s like with Gisharel but worse. Nothing she said to calm him helped. The slightest mistake made equilibrium impossible. She didn’t even mean to do it. Why won’t he understand? For the sanctity of a bargain? Because she cornered him and didn’t give him enough time?

  
It’s mad. _She_ cornered the _giant wolf god_.

  
She exhales heavily through her nose. She’s exhausted now. Her nerves are frayed and she is choking back grief. She doesn’t want to fight these devastating revelations unable to move, unable to see, unable to speak on top of a freezing mountain.

  
He got upset because she was trying to appease him. In that case, the last thing he needs is more appeasement. She tugs at his wrist again. She pulls hard at his grip on her and tries to turn her head away.

  
“No!” he denies her sharply, resisting her struggles and holding her fast. She can feel him shaking. “You do not get to speak. I cannot bear it, not even the _sound_ of your voice!”

  
His voice is ragged. She exhales again, calming herself. It takes some time to find her self control, to forcibly slow her breathing. Panic would be easy but it would also be her undoing. She cannot strain and struggle if she wants to tame him. She rubs the back of his hand with her thumb. Then she reaches blindly upward, searching until she can lay her hand on the side of his face. He makes a broken, anguished noise and leans into her touch. He takes his hand from her eyes and with it, clutches her hand to his cheek. The arm still around her and the hand upon her mouth only tighten- as if he could pull her straight into his heart.

  
The snow has cleared, making way for tints of sunlight. Dawn is breaking. No wonder she feels so tired. She left Skyhold after a long day, climbed a mountain and has now been quarreling with Fen'Harel all night.

  
“I am not being unfair,” he whispers hollowly to her then, as if in response to an unspoken accusation. “I told you that I needed time. You wanted answers immediately. I offered you a deal because it was _the only way_ I could give them to you. If you cannot do something, fool child, do not make a promise!” He is resolute. “I won’t forgive you.”

  
She closes her eyes. Even this little amount of light seems overly bright. She keeps rubbing Solas’s hand, trying to soothe him. The sun has climbed out from the mountains’ shadows by the time he releases her mouth.

  
“I love you,” she says, turning in his arms to put her head on his shoulder. She’s so tired. “I love you and that is a _fact_. Nothing can change it- not tens of thousands of years, not a mistake and certainly not your shape.” Her face feels wet. Is she still crying? “I am very upset," she perseveres with heavy lips and heavy tongue. "That’s why I failed to communicate this to you. I am sorry. Believe me, I recognize the price you paid to confess. I don’t think you’re a monster, Solas. We'll find a path forward together...everything will be alright, somehow. We're used to desperate odds by now, right?"

  
The words sap away what energy she has left. The emotions she yet restrains are far too draining. Still, she hears Solas sigh. The tension bleeds from his body. The shaking she felt becomes rest. Relief fills her like a cleansing wave. It will be fine, she thinks. She relaxes into his embrace and then she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the next character detail I need is Vallaslin dedication. This Inquisitor kept her Vallaslin as a part of her identity. Which god she honors makes little difference in the game. It will be relevant in future chapters though. Which god should it be? Anybody goes except Fen'Harel, lol. Okay, admittedly, June might be hard to spin. If you pick June, give me some rationalization because I can't think of it on my own haha. 
> 
> (Also, we've taken a break from the steamy parts but they will be back next chapter...I swear. They fit too well with Solas's decadent side so they end up as a way to work through issues. *shrugs*)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to make Lana a knight enchanter over a rift mage. I know that's probably the less popular choice but I'd like to provide justification for some of her athleticism. Also, it's a very effective class. Anyone else like to play on Nightmare mode with all the Trespasser trials on? Lol
> 
> As for the Vallaslin, there didn't seem to be a single definitive preference so I'll probably go with Dirthamen. I agree it would be very fun for her to have an enemy's Vallaslin. My trouble with picking June is, yes, he's the god of engineering but how much engineering do the Dalish have? Aravel repair? Weapon smithing? June probably invented the eluvians. I might have been able to pull it off if she was a rogue artificer but I can't reason through it when she's a mage.
> 
> Thanks so much for your feedback! :D

Ellana awakens in a state of depleted numbness. Rest has ground the edge off of her terror, her grief and her pain. The feelings remain however, gray and shapeless, like cotton in her lungs. This is the prize that awaited her beyond the bliss of ignorance. She wanted to know; now she does. Her resolve abandons her for the moment. Truth has left her beaten and defeated. Still, she reminds herself to persist. She fights the heaviness of her eyelids. It is better to be alive and struggling than happy and dead- especially while she has people to protect.

  
When she opens her eyes, she does not know where she is.

  
She stares at the ceiling above her, gaze lured into a tangle of painted shapes. The mural spans the entire space, composed of fantastical creatures entwining. She sees dragons, griffins, halla and beasts she cannot name. The abstract design both pleases and confuses. Her viscous thoughts get lost in it.

  
“Mm.” She hums, blinking groggily and clearing her throat. She has no energy at all. The sheets are softer than silk under her searching hands. The pillow beneath her head might as well be a cloud. Other than a thin undershirt and smalls, her clothes are gone. It takes an unreasonable amount of effort to sit up. She is weak with hunger. Her body aches fiercely from yesterday’s climb- or perhaps the pains stem from sitting trapped in a god’s grasp for hours.

  
A chill runs down her spine. She surveys the room. The bed, for one, is enormous. It is no exaggeration to say a dragon could sleep on it comfortably. She has been placed right in the middle of it and must crawl a ways to the edge. The rest of the room’s furniture looks to be normal in size- a desk, a wardrobe, bookshelves, a sitting area, a little breakfast table. Light permeates the space with no apparent source. The walls are painted with the likeness of trees, trunks and leaves folding endlessly into each other.

  
She steps gingerly down off the bed, spying a bowl of fresh fruit on the breakfast table. There are apples, pears and peaches. Perhaps it is the necessary pragmatism of a Dalish lifestyle but there is food and she’s hungry. The fruit not only smells normal, it smells fantastic. She eats half the bowl in a matter of minutes. Once she feels less faint, she returns to the puzzle of where she is.

  
Obviously, Solas brought her here. Where and why are better questions. Is this another ancient elvhen keep, hidden and preserved like Mythal’s temple? Now that she knows his plans, does he mean to keep her away from the Inquisition?

  
It’s an upsetting idea. She draws a deep breath and exhales it in a gust. She runs her fingers restlessly back through her hair. Anxiety provides her with energy again. She has to go back! For one, she’ll turn into a nervous wreck if she goes too long without seeing Dorian. He’s her moral support. Honestly, she’d be overjoyed to see any of her friends right now. Then there’s the impending apocalyptic event she has to start prepping the world for.

  
The thought makes her shoulders hunch like the weight of nine dozen bricks. She reaches vaguely out and grips the back of a chair. It’s all fine, of course. She’ll go find Solas and convince him to see things her way. She just has to remember he’s a _god_ and pretend that’s nothing remarkable at all. She must be ten times more careful of what she says to him without seeming like it. She needs to believe in him and also be wary of his ceaseless deceits. He wants her to act normally.

  
Who knows what he’ll do this time if she fails? His unpredictable behavior doesn’t seem to have stopped. First he restrained her on a mountain top and now she doesn’t even know where she is. She cannot anticipate the emotions of someone who has lived tens of thousands of years.

  
It’s not like she _wanted_ to upset him. It isn’t as though she _wanted_ to cause that pain in his eyes.

  
“Clothes,” Lana murmurs tonelessly to herself. “How about clothes?”

  
She glances about but doesn’t see her snow gear. There’s a familiar black fur robe thrown over the back of a chair. She checks inside the wardrobe but it doesn’t contain clothes at all. Instead, it has numerous bone charms, bone jewelry, bone ornaments and animal skulls inside it. They are all polished beautifully, some inlaid with gold and some with designs carved into them.

  
She stares in perplexed silence then closes the wardrobe.

  
She ends up donning Solas’s fur robe. For all she knows, this keep is full of dour-faced Abelases. Running off with Fen’Harel’s clothes is better than scandalizing ancient hahrens by walking around in her underwear.

  
She wishes she had her staff or her spirit blade. Still, her magic is weapon enough on its own. And if she should happen to run into a really powerful enemy? Well, that‘s what the Anchor is for. She’s the strongest terminally ill glass cannon anywhere.

  
She leaves the lavish bedroom only to learn it is a whole suite of rooms. There’s a library, a study, an overgrown indoor garden, a bath and a lounge. Every wall of every room is painted in Solas’s artistic style. The outer rooms are not as clean as the bedroom was, however. The fabrics, though in good repair, are covered in layers of dust. She barely makes it through without sneezing.

  
Then she steps into the corridor of a vast keep and realizes she is quite alone. There are no Sentinels, ready to scowl and call her unworthy. The silence is almost thick enough to taste. The murals stop abruptly where the corridor begins, replaced by smoothly cut stone. Layers of grime cover everything. It’s only a guest suite, she decides as she leaves the painted rooms behind. Whatever this place is, Fen’Harel is not its master.

  
He’d have painted the whole damn thing otherwise, she thinks.

  
The keep is silent, dusty and enormous. Regardless, she finds Solas promptly. Her Mark draws her through faded rooms and up spiraling staircases. She can feel threads of energy, connecting her palm to the orb. Honestly, she might have felt it last night had she stopped to think. She can tell where he is so long as he carries the orb in his chest.

  
Solas occupies a vast hall marked with pale tiles of interlocking geometric shapes. White and silver triangles fit together on the floor. The tall windows are faintly-colored stained glass, casting tinted light over the room. They are too dirty for her to make out the intended picture. The Trickster God himself stands before a pair of great double doors. He is in the form of a giant wolf once more, six eyes narrowed in concentration.

  
There are advantages and disadvantages to dealing with Solas in this shape. On the upside, Lana won’t be so easily swayed by his lies. She is less likely to be misled by her love of him. She’ll have a harder time seeing his pain and so meeting his gaze might not break her heart. On the downside, she can’t ignore the divinity he denies. Thus, she is more likely to be terrified.

  
He has his back to her now and he doesn’t seem to have noticed her. He is trying to get through the doors, she realizes, casting spells in an attempt to unlock them. His tail lashes restlessly back and forth, displacing dust. He’s beautiful in a vast, frightening way, like a dragon is beautiful. Still, wolves shouldn’t be that enormous- and they probably shouldn’t have six eyes either. When he chose his first body, he was certainly liberal with his interpretation of ‘real.’

  
Every time she has knowingly greeted Fen’Harel in her short, mortal life, she has done so with a prayer, a modest offering and a due amount of reverence. Clan Lavellan makes a sweet wine from nectar and fruit exclusively for offerings. Not even the hahrens ever get a taste. She has to wrestle these inclinations down now. She should pretend it’s any other morning, coming down from the tower to find him poring over books. She arranges her face in a calm expression. She strays into the wide open hall and approaches the wolf.

  
“Good morning, Solas,” she greets mildly. “Is this another door with three dozen key shards?”

  
“It is evening,” he replies curtly, not turning around, “and no.”

  
She throws a sharp glance at the windows, second guessing the pure luminescence behind them.

  
“Artificial light,” he answers her unspoken question. “Once, the spell dimmed at night to imitate the setting of the sun. The Veil seems to have disabled its more delicate functions however. Still, all in all, the keep has endured rather well. Far better than the Vir Dirthara. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  
“Certainly,” she says. “I would have expected the fabrics to rot away. Instead, there is just a bit of dust.”

  
“We made our possessions to last,” he says and then lapses into silence.

  
She wanders around to his side so that she can see his face. His profile is shadowy and proud, three eyes visible. He is so tall that, from this distance, she must tilt her head back to look at him. His mood is closed and standoffish. She hoped for better to work with. Still, there are worse states she could have found him in after their spat.

  
At least he didn’t toss her down in the middle of a lost ruin and disappear.

  
“Are you alright?” she asks him quietly.

  
His tail swishes across the floor again, kicking up dust. “I am.”

  
She takes a cautious step closer. “Why are we here?”

  
He lowers himself to the floor with a sigh. Then he turns his great head, meeting her gaze. “Ghilan’nain may have left research here that I currently need. In her area of expertise, she is a master I cannot hope to compare to. Stealing her work is much more plausible than trying to develop my own. Unfortunately, theft is something she expects from me. Instead of using magical locks I could overpower, she has installed a series of logic puzzles. I’ve solved several already in this room. There are likely a dozen more between me and her lab.”

  
“I see,” Lana replies carefully. “How long do you think it will take? I, at the very least, might need to get back soon. The Inquisition-”

  
“Should guard you more closely if they don’t want you stolen away,” Solas interjects. “I keep saying this.”

  
“Solas,” she sighs, folding her arms over her chest, “you could kidnap Archon Radonis out from behind an army of bodyguards, a host of demons and a warded panic room.”

  
His six eyes narrow in pleasure, his tail soothing into stillness. He seems mollified by her confidence in his abilities. She makes a mental note. It helps to praise that in which he takes pride.

  
“I estimate a week,” he concedes, referencing the time it would take to unlock Ghilan’nain’s lab, “less if you assist me. Then we may return.”

  
The weight of her fear lessens considerably. He doesn’t intend to keep her trapped here or prevent her from warning her people. It makes her nearly giddy with relief. She closes the distance between them, sinks down beside his folded front leg and embraces it. His fur is thick, soft and warm. Strangely, he smells as he always has like books and herbs. His hide jumps beneath her touch, a shiver running through his fur.

  
He settles against her, his chin brushing the top of her head. “I thought you would stay at a distance if I kept my true form,” he notes quietly after a moment.

  
She stills. “Would you prefer that I didn’t touch you?”

  
“No, that’s not it…” he trails off. “Please, forget I said anything.” His muzzle brushes against her hair and her shoulder, lingering. Then he withdraws, tugging his foreleg gently out of her grasp. “Come, vhenan,” he bids her. “Let me explain these puzzles. The more minds applied, the faster we shall gain access.”

  
She stands, brushing dust off of the robe she wears. “In that case, I wish we’d brought Dorian and Bull.”

  
The puzzles, Solas informs her, are merely designed to slow a thief. In theory, the delay would allow Ghilan’nain’s followers or Ghilan’nain herself time enough to arrive and intercede. To avoid setting off an alarm, they must be solved in a matter of hours. Since Ghilan’nain and her followers are locked away, this is not a concern. Thus, there is little danger to the puzzles themselves. They’re just impervious to all magic. The spells Lana saw Solas casting simply moved shapes around on the door.

  
It takes as much observation as it takes logic. They begin at the door and move slowly out through the vast room, examining patterns. It’s eerie- what with the well-preserved ruin and the hulking legend who is Lana’s companion. Nonetheless, she has sifted through many such ancient puzzles. She has an inkling of how to go about it. She and Solas trade ideas back and forth, sharing clues they find. She catches him watching her every now and then, six eyes fixed on her instead of the room. She cannot read his expressions from a lupine face. Still, the force of his gaze strikes her as being unnervingly intense.

  
When she strays too close, his tail brushes casually against her calves or weaves in between her ankles. The thick fur robe she wears never seems to pose an obstacle.

  
After some consideration, god and mortal manage to open the door by using the pattern of shapes on the floor as a cipher, multiplying the silver shapes by the number of white shapes and then entering in the square root. The instructions on how to get through were hidden in the stained glass window; Lana discovered them accidentally when she went to clean the glass for more light.

  
Sadly, the doors open into a whole new room of puzzles and these are no less convoluted. They solve three more, cracking three parts of a twelve-part lock, before Lana is too hungry to continue. She wistfully mentions the bowl of fruit in Solas’s suite. He shakes his head and leads her out of the room.

  
Ghilan’nain’s keep exits into a wide, garden landscape. The land thrives with vibrant flowers, fruit trees and herbs. The air, however perfumed, smells oddly musty and damp. Lana sees halla, rams and rabbits moving fearlessly through the grounds. Her gaze, however, is drawn to the towering black dome that surrounds the keep. Its surface is unnaturally smooth and it encompasses the beautiful elvhen keep in every direction. As Solas claimed, the light is artificial; it comes from a brightly glowing ball of magic near the dome’s highest point.

  
Lana is still puzzling over the dome as Solas settles down in the grass.

  
“You are hungry, aren’t you?” he prompts. “Slaughter a ram.”

  
“I don’t have anything to skin and carve it with,” she points out, frowning at the dome’s seamless black surface. Is there something moving behind it? “You made off with all my things.”

  
“Did I do that?” the enormous wolf asks himself, tilting his head quizzically to one side. “Ah, yes, that’s right. Your clothes were soaked from the trip down. The eluvians are sealed so we had to take the stairs. I tossed all your things in a pile somewhere around here…”

  
“Don’t even try to feed me that ‘old age kills the memory' excuse,” she shoots back.

  
He scoffs in mock indignation.

  
She considers what he said about stairs. If they had to take a ‘wet trip down’ and they ended up here, where is this keep? The dome can’t be made of stone. No matter how magically-formed, it’s too smooth. It also seems somewhat transparent, dark shapes moving behind it. Is the dome nothing more than a magical barrier? If so, the material outside it has molded to fit its shape…a liquid.

  
“Solas,” she says abruptly, “is this keep at the _bottom_ of the _Amaranthine ocean?_ ”

  
“Ah, quickly discerned,” he praises her. “Well done.”

  
Nearby, an ice spike rises suddenly out of the ground and impales a ram through the throat. It collapses in a heap. The ram floats over in a haze of Solas’s magic. A fire flares to life in a shallow pit on the ground. Then the ram’s hide splits, peeling away from muscle and flesh like a husk from corn. Solas’s magic begins slicing meat away, floating the cutlets up over the fire where they slowly revolve.

  
“I will cook for us tonight,” he announces mildly. “Those herbs over there- the ones with purple flowers, you see them? They make a nice seasoning.”

  
“And you called Dalish magic practical,” Lana marvels, going to harvest the specified herbs.

  
“Well, yes, compared to _shemlen_ magic,” Solas says, tail lashing restlessly. “The People use magic for everything. If I could not complete mundane tasks without opposable thumbs, this body would be a tad inconvenient.”

  
She bends over to pick some more herbs. When she straightens, he’s staring at her again. She has an inkling what it is now. In his elven form, she’d recognize in a heartbeat that lustful, hungering look. She’s not sure what to make of it from a six-eyed wolf god ten times her size. Still, he has only to change back, hasn’t he? Honestly, she’d welcome the chance to hold him in her arms.

  
So long as he wants her, she has him. If he cannot look away from a mortal being, he cannot write her people off as necessary sacrifices. His desire is the greatest reassurance. His closeness means an alliance is still possible. Never mind her betrayed and broken heart, smashed against the rocks of mass murder. Never mind her weaker impulse to cling to what she loves.

  
She brings the herbs over then seats herself dauntlessly between his massive paws. She feels his hide jump again as she leans back against his chest.

  
The purple flowered herbs float into the air. She watches his magic extract the edible parts of the plant for dicing. Solas butchers another ram with an ice spike. It joins the bloody pile. Smoke and the scent of cooking meat waft through the air. The wolf puts his head down on his paw beside Ellana, three eyes swiveling to regard her.

  
His tail curls around his side and over his other paw. It ends up tossed across her lap, engulfing her on all sides by black fur.

  
“So,” she says, reclining calmly against him. “What sort of research are we stealing from Ghilan’nain?”

  
“Oh,” he responds none too quickly, “the usual sort of thing. Bioengineering, magical receptiveness on a cellular level, genome maps.”

  
“I…don’t know what any of that is,” she admits. The last time he brought up bioengineering, she insisted it wasn’t a word and that he was getting their language wrong. She isn’t mad enough to say so now- regardless of whether or not he’s making it up.

  
He’s the Trickster God and he tricked her into getting his orb of destruction back for him. Despite his scathing rebuttals of Dalish legend, his infamy seems well-deserved. She’ll smile and she’ll nod but she’s not about to take anything he says at face value.

  
“You could attend a seminar on the subject,” Solas suggests, evincing his usual, fervent enthusiasm at the idea of learning. “There are still some echoing about the Fade, especially in the Vir Dirthara. Ghilan’nain has also authored many fantastic books on her craft, though they do get rather technical. It should only take you a few centuries to achieve a full comprehension of the art.”

  
“Even though I learn so fast?”

  
“ _Because_ you learn so fast.” He tilts his head toward her, fondly brushing her with his cheek. “And look, vhenan, I believe the meat is done.”

  
Eating without napkins and knives is messy. Lana, however, is used to making do. The ram meat tastes quite good, smoked above the open fire. The herbs taste sweet and sharp, waking her palate. She ends up with greasy fingers and must wipe them on her undershirt when she’s done. Solas, of course, has a mouth so big that he can swallow each of his portions in one bite. His appetite, as well, seems to have grown to match his body. Between them, the bounty of two rams is easily finished.

  
Full and warm, she stares drowsily up at the pitch black ocean. How deep down are they? Could she use magic to illuminate some of the water? If so, would she see whales and sea creatures swimming about? It’s a silly thing to wonder when there’s a whole ruin to study. Her clan would give their teeth to find something like this. What other bizarre locales did the ancient elves build their structures in?

  
Spires in the clouds? Temples in the tree tops? A cozy, winter villa in an active volcano?

  
“Dozing off already?” he inquires, nudging her. “You slept all day!”

  
“This is the time I’d normally be asleep though,” she points out mildly. “And you should blame your extremely comfortable fur.”

  
“Hah!” he gives a short bark of laughter. “Really.”

  
“Let’s go to bed,” she suggests.

  
He stands, gently pushing her to her feet. “I will show you back to the guest suite. Once you’ve rested, you may join me at the lab entrance again.”

  
“Or you could stay the night with me,” she reasons, following as he pads back into the keep, “and we’ll get the doors open twice as fast because we’ll be so well-rested.”

  
“Don’t be difficult,” he murmurs very quietly and without turning around. “You’ve been difficult enough already.”

  
He leaves very little room for argument so they walk the rest of the way in silence. The guest suite is the same as she left it, all dusty rooms and painted walls. In the bedroom, she goes and sits on the edge of the enormous mattress. Looking at him now, it’s obvious why the bed is so big. It’s meant to hold a giant wolf.

  
“The bath,” Solas tells her a bit aimlessly, “it has clean, running water should you wish to freshen up.”

  
“Stay with me, my one love,” she bids him quietly, looking him in the eyes.

  
“You’re remarkably accustomed to getting what you want,” he snips. “All the time you’ve spent as Inquisitor, perhaps?”

  
She clasps her hands tightly together over her knees, anchoring herself. “I’m not trying to upset you,” she says, keeping her voice steady. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

  
_“Persuasive thing_ ,” he sneers- but she holds his gaze and refuses to look away.

  
Solas breaks their eye contact first. He glances about the room, his tail lashing back and forth in agitation. Then he exhales heavily. He steps up onto the bed. She feels the vast mattress dip with his weight as he settles down onto it.

  
She crawls over to him, kneeling as she leans against his side. Each of his breaths pushes her slightly, up and down, in and out. “Won’t you turn back into an elf?” she breathes to him. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

  
“You’re a feast for the eyes,” he says softly back. Then, “Leave it be. I am not in the best state of mind, vhenan…and you remain unsettled.”

  
“Do I seem unsettled to you?” she returns.

  
“No, you do not _seem_ unsettled,” he admits, “but you _must_ be. You’re simply skillful at hiding it.”

  
“By the way,” she deflects him, catching his tail in her arms when it flicks close. “That swear word I’ve heard you use…fenedhis? Isn’t it a bit ironic for you to be saying that?”

  
“I see you’re applying your curiosity where it counts,” he quips.

  
“The People initially began exclaiming ‘wolf dick!’ in reference to _you_ though, right?” she supposes innocently, stroking his tail. “I’m guessing when they found out how good you are in bed. Now there’s an expletive that’s lasted millennia. Fenedhis, that blew me away! Fenedhis, three times? Fenedhis, that’s huge!”

  
“Everyone everywhere used the phrase,” Solas justifies himself demurely, “for tens of thousands of years. I only picked it up.”

  
“Ah, yes,” she agrees, stretching out against his side and keeping the tip of his tail captive. She hugs it to her chest. “You must have been _well_ - _positioned_ to influence our culture.”

  
“You are terrible,” he says seriously, “and it’s impolite to grab someone’s tail.”

  
“Maybe someone’s tail should stop rubbing against my legs then,” she retorts.

  
The tail vanishes abruptly from her grasp though, his body dissolving into shadows and reforming as an elf. He is pressed against her side, leaning over her. She looks up into his eyes, faced jarringly with expressions that she can read. Her teasing humor fades, impossible to sustain. There is too much pain etched at the corners of his mouth, the creases around his eyes. As for his eyes, they are terrifyingly fierce. She cannot so much as lift her head from the mattress. His gaze pins her there.

  
She couldn’t see it when he was a wolf. The strangeness of his features lost his feelings in translation. It’s funny in hindsight to realize that the monstrous, six-eyed beast could be the less daunting of his forms.

  
“If staying will make you miserable,” she whispers, fighting the lump in her throat, “just ignore me. I will give you space. I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean to…”

  
“Don’t misunderstand, my heart,” he murmurs. His voice did not change with the shape of his mouth. “I do not wish to be alone either. You can’t imagine. But I…” He takes ahold of her jaw, thumb sliding over her lower lip. The firm grasp reminds her of the night before. She suppresses a shiver. “I cannot sleep and recover. I do not process emotion that quickly. I’m compelled to hold you to me and not let you go. It’s…”

  
“You managed earlier this evening,” she points out, her voice hushed. “You went to open Ghilan’nain’s lab.”

  
“I brought you to a deserted keep beneath the ocean,” Solas murmurs. How can his eyes be so terrible when his voice is so calm? “I used the orb to tame the beasts that guard it. Ghilan’nain’s creations have dwelt in silence for eons; they are not fond of visitors. Indeed, if you can even find the staircase, you will not be able to ascend- not without my help. I have ensured your closeness. You cannot get much farther away than three miles from me in any direction. What is the difference between this and holding you by the mouth? I chose a larger cage to lend you peace of mind. My emotional state has not changed.”

  
“I’m not about to abandon you, Solas,” she whispers to him. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  
“ _Liar!_ ” he bites out, eyes flashing, rattling her. Has she set him off again? Has she lost control of the situation, as she did last night? The thought makes panic rise in her throat. Then he bows his head to her chest, a tortured, anguished sound leaving his lips. “You’re dying in my arms even now! I will be all alone…with no one left.”

  
She wraps her arms tightly around him, pulling him close. The ceiling blurs above her, distorted by tears. He shudders in her embrace but his fingers are tight on her shoulder.

  
“Shh,” she tries to soothe him. “It will be alright.”

  
“I can hear your heart pounding,” he says and it’s like an accusation. “You’re frightened.”

  
“Mortal hearts beat faster,” she lies at once, staring at the mural on the ceiling. “Have you felt a rabbit’s heartbeat? The shorter the lifespan, the faster the rate.”

  
He pulls himself free of her grasp to fix her with a look of scathing disbelief. His expression seems to convey something like, ‘ _do you honestly think I’ll buy a stupid lie like that?’_

  
“No, really,” she persists, so delighted by his incredulity that her fears evaporate. Actually, it’s hard to keep a straight face. “It’s true. You just don’t know because you haven’t spent enough time with mortals.”

  
“Ah, yes,” he revels sardonically, “that must be it. And all those occasions in which I’ve heard your heart beat slowly, that’s because…?”

  
“Low blood pressure.”

  
He gives her a withering look; his eyebrow couldn’t climb any higher. It’s her win. She has managed to annoy him so much that he’s forgotten his sorrow. She grins cheekily up at him. He shakes his head- lamenting her shameless impudence, perhaps- and kisses her.

  
It’s not his fierce intensity that surprises her; it’s her own. She used her wit to coax him away from his vast and dangerous emotions. Her humor allows her to hold an ancient being tamed in her arms. He licks his way into her mouth. She pushes back, lips wrapping around his tongue, her own tongue delving. How can she cling to him? How can she hold him? She might as well attempt to coax the moon down from the sky, stop a tsunami with her bare hands. She runs her hands over his face and his neck. She leans up for access, head leaving the mattress. She feels hopeless and she wants reassurance. He’s too old, he’s too great, he’s too powerful, he’s too vast and he’s too much. She focused so much on calming him that she failed to calm herself.

  
She slips her fingers down the back of his shirt from his collar. He breaks away, exhaling heavily. She manages to steal another kiss from his lips before he eludes her. He wants her ear, licking the tip, nibbling at her earlobe. She throws her head back when he goes for her neck. She curls her leg around the back of his knee. She messes up his clothes. He nips a bit hard at her throat, sending a shock of shivers down her spine. She gasps.

  
“Sorry,” he murmurs faintly, licking the abused patch of skin.

  
“I really don’t mind,” she exhales, glancing up at the ceiling. Her eyes get tangled in the mural again, wound through dragons and griffins and six-legged gazelles. Her duel with Solas’s shirt yields progress and she runs her hands hungrily over his ribs.

  
“It’s alright?” he asks with a note of surprise.

  
She makes an affirmative noise, now caressing his back. He bites the juncture between her neck and her shoulder roughly. She arches in his grasp, nails digging into his back. He pulls the robe from her shoulders, nipping now at the skin her undershirt leaves bare.

  
“Solas,” she urges, tugging at his waistband, voice gone thready, “quickly, please, don’t make me wait. I need you.”

  
“Yes, I understand,” he says quietly in reply, yanking open her robe and dragging her smalls down off her legs. He withdraws for a moment to remove his shirt and trousers. She pursues him, wrapping her arms around him and doing her best to get in his way. She doesn’t know why she wants to be troublesome; it’s a compulsion. She licks his ear and kisses the line of his jaw. She runs her palm over his stomach. She nips at the side of his neck.

  
“Harder,” he bids her breathlessly, cupping the back of her head with one hand. She sinks her teeth in, aiming to make a bruise, and feels his chest swell beneath her hand. His heart is pounding rapidly, at odds with his quiet voice. He shucks his trousers the rest of the way off. She bites him again and tugs his nipple for being too slow. He turns, shoves her down and pins her to the bed.

  
“May I hold you this way?” he inquires, still very quietly, restraining her wrists on either side of her head.

  
“Yes, yes, hurry!” she urges him, wrapping bare legs around his waist and trying to pull him to her.

  
He curses under his breath and she hears his voice falter. Then he’s pushing against her, into her, sinking deep into her accommodating flesh. The air rushes out of her lungs. She squeezes him as hard as she can in revenge. He shouts, stifling the sound against her shoulder. He finds his pace quickly then, rough thrusts bouncing her up and down on the bed. Her hardened nipples drag against the fabric of her undershirt. She bucks, writhing, clinging to him as tightly as possible with her knees. The fur of the robe is silken beneath her. The ancient room rings with the sound of gasping, broken cries and flesh smacking against flesh.

  
Solas presses his mouth to her cheek, sweltering breath against the side of her face. He never fails to please. His deep strokes meet her urgent need, rubbing deliciously inside her. She lets him work her up to the brink, egging him on with rolling hips. She takes her pleasure greedily, turning her head and kissing any part of his face she can reach. She crests after a vigorous, rough minute of exertion and her body contracts around him.

  
Lana sags against the bed, drenched in sweat where her body is cradled by fur. She’s flushed from head to toe, panting, and her nerves still sing. Solas pulls in a ragged breath and withdraws, leaving her inner muscles to clench on nothing. He releases her hands, bowing his head over her chest as he tries to catch his breath.

  
“What,” she mutters, trying to blink away the stars that have suddenly appeared in the mural above her. “Where are you going?”

  
He pushes himself back up, taking her mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. She feels his length, still hot and heavy, against her thigh. Then he pulls her undershirt up over her breasts, dipping his head to lave at her nipple.

  
She exhales heavily, too sated to puzzle through his mood. She lays bonelessly on the mattress, enjoying the wet tug of his mouth. She really likes the mural on the ceiling. It’s so interesting that she can imagine staring at it every night, counting the marvelous beasts. Solas squeezes her breast in his hand then and gives the peak a sharp nip. The twinge of discomfort jolts through her, startling her nerves back awake.

  
“ _Gahh_ ,” she utters, winded. Then she crosses her arms over her chest, fixing him with a reproachful look. Really, the only thing to do is to raise her leg, rubbing her calf against his swollen length.

  
Solas jumps a bit, shakes his head and catches her wrists again. He pins them down beside her waist this time and goes for her other breast. The swipe of his tongue has her recognizing the same pattern. She twists, writhing away from his attentions for a moment before he catches her. Then her nipple is once again in his mouth, plied by disarming swirls of his tongue. No matter how wonderful the suckling feels, she is stuck in suspense waiting for the bite. She makes a frustrated noise, tossing against the mattress. She gets a knee up and manages to prod his erection with her foot this time.

  
He bites her. She yelps, over-sensitized from his ministrations- but that was his plan from the start. She’s pent up and aching again. He kisses down between her breasts to her stomach, still holding her wrists. Her leverage, his unspent desire, slips beyond her reach. He dips his tongue into her naval, startling another cry from her lips. He’s been saving that trick; it takes her from worked up to desperate.

  
He releases her wrists, settles between her legs and puts his tongue in her.

  
“ _Nnnha!_ ” She scrabbles for a handhold, hips straining in his iron grip, and ends up seizing his hands. “Come now,” she stammers, voice high, “you’re being- _hahh_ \- difficult.”

  
“I’m being difficult?” he repeats, pausing his onslaught. “Oh, no. I think you must be mistaken. The title of difficult goes to an impossible da’len who derailed all of my plans.” He drags his teeth against the soft inside of her thigh.

  
“No, no,” she disagrees recklessly, “it’s definitely you. Everyone knows that old age makes people stubborn.”

  
“Hmm,” is all he says before returning to work.

  
She gives in for a bit, biting her lower lip at the stimulation. Predictably, she can’t move her hips at all. He has her thighs pinned to the bed, her own hands clenched tightly over his. He spears her with his tongue, flicks her clit with it, then spears her again. The mural blurs above her. The air in the room is thick. Pitiful mewls keep escaping her mouth, even when she tries to rein them in. His tongue thrusts deep, deeper, then licks against that spot in her that has her arching off the bed.

  
Gazelles shouldn’t have six legs, Lana decides. Gazelles don’t even _look better_ with six legs! Is Ghilan’nain a bit mad?

  
“That’s a bit much,” she chokes out, shrieking a little when he does it again. “Solas, please, that’s a bit-”

  
He readily demonstrated his ability to change any part of his body. Of the kinks he’s put forward tonight, it’s the only one he hasn’t flown by her first. Does he think it’s normal then…to make…his tongue…longer…? Or does this magic, compared to biting and holding her down, just fail to stray near the definition of abuse?

  
He presses his face to her thigh, his mouth and jaw slick with her fluids. “You want me to stop?” he asks. His voice has again sunken to a very quiet volume.

  
The cessation of his attentions, however, is unbearable. She aches for more, aches horribly. She casts about, frazzled and unable to think clearly. She utters a few more pleas, tugging on his wrists.

  
“Do I stop or do I continue?” he inquires.

  
“Keep going,” she gasps out, “please, please, Solas- _ahh-”_

  
He complies. She sags back against the bed with a sob, shuddering violently. Her hair feels damp beneath her head. She looks up at the ceiling. Why do the cats have wings? Isn’t that just unfair to the birds? It only takes three more passes of his tongue before she cries and comes apart.

  
She’s wrecked after that, only vaguely aware of him releasing her. He pulls her out of the fur robe, lifting her body. She hangs from his grasp like a rag doll. He settles her gently down on her stomach. He arranges her arms at her sides then folds them at the elbow behind her back. He grips her there, with her wrists overlapping, and takes her from behind.

  
Her brain disconnects. She’s floating. Her pleasured body still ripples and squeezes. She lies listlessly on the bed, making little gasps and choked sounds. Solas fucks her urgently, stroking her over-stimulated insides, jolting her on the bed. It should almost be over now. He forced himself to wait and his restraint is nearly spent. She hears him cry out, his thrusts turning shallow and rapid. A sob tears from her lips. She can’t do this.

  
Right then, she has a moment of keen lucidity. Though Solas explained her dwindling time, the knowledge of her impending death hadn’t sunk in. Now she truly understands. She was killed, just like Justinia and hundreds of others, at the Conclave. She is dead walking. She has been murdered by Fen’Harel and she is going to die.

  
Solas comes with a gasp and catches himself with one hand on the bed beside her. For a moment, they are still, just gasping for breath. He withdraws carefully, easing himself down to the sheets next to her. He meets her gaze and they stare at each other in silence. She doesn’t know what the look in his eyes is. It’s probably an unknowable emotion that mortals never feel.

  
At last, he reaches out with drugged, disoriented fingers and cards them through her hair. She lets her eyelids fall closed, soothed. Her drying sweat and the wetness between her legs is cold. He casts a spell however, leaving them both clean. He nestles close, pulling the robe over them. Lana lays her head on his chest, listening as his heartbeat slows and calms. She reaches blindly for his hand. When he laces his fingers through hers, she feels inexplicably relieved.

  
Sleeping seems like a good idea.

  
“You won’t,” Solas says out of nowhere.

  
“Hnn?” she replies coherently.

  
“I heard you,” he states haltingly. “You whispered just now- that you’re going to die.”

  
“I am going to die,” she agrees, the words coming out muffled because she’s too tired to lift her head.

  
Solas gathers her close, holding her hand in his, caressing her hair with the other. He’s quiet for a while and she thinks it’s conversation closed. Then, just as she’s falling asleep, he murmurs with quiet vehemence,

  
“Not if I can find a way to save you.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

Ellana feels better when she awakens. She slept deeply after a hearty meal and intense sex. The raw, wrung-out exhaustion of the evening before has consecutively diminished. She doesn’t feel much like moving, of course. Solas is asleep at her back, his body spooning hers and his arm beneath her head. The sheets are soft and the fur robe turned blanket is warm. The dim, artificial light of the room creates a drowsy, peaceful feeling. She can tell without getting up that she’s going to be sore.

  
She stares at painted trees on the wall, soaking in the quiet. She rubs absent circles on Solas’s unmoving palm. She listens to the sound of his breathing. Then, as her thoughts shrug off sleep, she thinks of ways to neutralize him.

  
Fen’Harel is happy to protect the mortal peoples of Thedas if he has the resources for it. He’s perfectly willing to avoid genocide if it fits into his plans. He is not malicious and he doesn’t wish to cause needless destruction. He’ll ease the transition from Veil to Veil-less as best he can, if possible, if workable and if convenient.

  
So the Inquisitor creates contingencies for survival _if not_.

  
Lana’s goal is most certainly to ally with Solas. It is both the most logical course of action and the most desirable. The idea of having him as her enemy is painful. Her odds of defeating him are slim. Even should she triumph, however, it would feel like a loss. Stopping him would prevent him from saving his people, albeit at the cost of hers. He would be devastated- and she would experience that grief as if it were her own.

  
There would be nothing but agony and horror in such a future.

  
Regardless, she is committed to protecting Thedas. She cannot allow its peoples to be sacrificed. Should Solas decide he ‘lacks the resources,’ there will be an apocalyptic world-changing disaster. Then there will be a horde of demons. Then there will be a war between ancient elvhen gods. Tens of thousands of people will die. Honestly, in such a situation, it would probably be easier to count the survivors.

  
It’s absolutely necessary to make a Plan B. Lana turns it over in her mind. Though Solas is the one who first put forth this whole ‘enemies’ possibility, she doubts he’s spent a lot of time thinking of how to defeat her. Why would he? He is a god and she is a terminally ill mortal elf. His people are so advanced they can travel thousands of leagues in one step. Mortals arrive at their destinations after weeks of traveling, smelling of horse.

  
Being underestimated, however, is advantageous.

  
Just as emotional leverage is a means of negotiation, the intimacy Solas and Lana share is a strategic element. She is at his side, expressing love and projecting calm. Last night, she made headway in regaining her footing. She stabilized a precarious situation. Now, with the foundation of a mended relationship, she can look ahead. She will act as though all of her effort is placed in convincing him to ally. He will grow complacent. The element of surprise is critical, as is timing. Nothing but a sudden, unanticipated attack will succeed.

  
It’s all the more reason to keep him close.

  
She formulates her strategy around the Anchor. In her fight against Corypheus, she tore the orb from his hand and summoned it to her. She is the focus’s default master. She can sense it now, a mere foot away from her in Solas’s chest. It occupies both this world and the Fade, seething with power.

  
She doesn’t know the extent to which she can command it. She has held the thing twice in her life and never for very long. It’s impossible to tell if she can pull the orb from out of his divine being. Her current circumstances don’t allow for experimentation. She can’t do anything that would alert him of her intentions. Thus, she plans for what she can be certain of.

  
If Solas holds the orb in his hand, she can summon it to her. Essentially, she can steal it.

  
At that point, she will have a tremendous amount of power and almost no time at all. Her next move must be ready at once. Killing Solas, thankfully, is not a viable option. Mythal survived being murdered by other _gods_. Even if the orb is powerful enough to slay a deity, Lana doesn’t trust she has the know-how to do it. What she can do is imprison Solas. After the situation with Inquisitor Ameridan and Hakkon, she researched binding rituals. She understands how the possessed dragon was held. She can use the very same spell on Solas, strengthened by the orb to hold a stronger captive.

  
She runs through the details of the ritual step by step. Then she strains her memory, reviewing how it felt to control the orb and direct it. The process should only take a moment.

  
Afterwards, she and Solas would be frozen together for all of eternity.

  
It’s not a terrible idea. It’s even a comforting one. Perhaps they’ll be able to talk to each other in dreams. Perhaps he’ll eventually forgive her. She lets her eyes fall shut, content to brainstorm ways she can trick Solas into revealing the orb. A few minutes later, however, her eyes snap back open. Her assurance shatters.

  
Flemeth! What about Flemeth? Would Mythal come to save her oldest friend? Provided that Solas’s story is true, it certainly seems so. What about this ‘Hellathen’ he mentioned, the resistance he led? Does he have subordinates of his own? Are they powerful enough to disrupt the imprisonment as the Jaws of Hakkon disrupted Ameridan’s?

  
Well, _Mythal_ definitely has the power. That much is certain.

  
Lana grits her teeth and screws her eyes shut, aggravated. This is awful and horrid and terrifying. There are too many loose ends. She has to think of a secure place, somewhere she can lure Solas to and somewhere no one will ever find them. Her mind, however, is drawing a blank. Spirits can find her _anywhere_ , thanks to the blasted, blazing Anchor! Mythal probably knows she’s under the ocean right this very second.

  
Certainty has never been more needed. The situation has never been more perilous. If Solas decides he lacks the resources to protect Thedas, she _must_ be ready. She can’t afford a plan that’s only half finished!

  
She draws a breath, exhales slowly and forces herself to calm. She still has time to hash it all out. Solas, it seems, has gotten it into his head to save her life. On the backdrop of the world ending, her condition is laughably unimportant. Still, she should be thankful. Every hour his preoccupation consumes is an hour in her favor.

  
Solas stirs behind her. She breathes deeply once more, repeating the steadying process. He gives a sleep-fogged hum from low in his throat, nuzzling a bit at her hair.

  
“Good morning, my one love,” she greets him softly. “What dreams did you walk last night?” She is aware of him coming awake, hearing the shift in his breathing.

  
“I walked a memory,” he answers.

  
His voice is still subdued, as it was the previous evening. The words fall quiet on her ear, blanketed by the numbing shroud of his sadness. Still, they come readily enough. He does not seek to distance himself.

  
“There are spirits who linger,” he tells her then, “even here in this empty place. They watched as we came, drawn to our emotions. When they reenact my memories, I can see what those emotions are. Belated though it may have been, I had to learn what you were feeling last night. Did you accept me warmly because you thought you had no other choice? Did you seduce me because it was the most logical thing to do? Were you frightened, secretly? Did you recoil inside…” He trails off for a beat then collects himself. “Such fears troubled me.”

  
“And what answers did you find?” she murmurs. “What spirits took my form?”

  
“Genuine desire. Genuine love. Genuine pain at the sight of my pain.” His voice falters. She takes his hand and holds it tightly. “You were deeply upset when you first woke,” he adds, barely whispering now. “Fearful, devastated, horrified, lost. Those feelings ebbed when I said we would return to Skyhold. I should have told you my reasons for coming here from the start. If I’d been there when you woke, I could have explained. But I was in no state to…I had to clear my head…”

  
“Shh,” she soothes him, “it’s fine.”

  
He falls silent. She holds his hand, rubbing back and forth with her thumb.

  
She’s lucky her real feelings align so perfectly with the most logical course of action. Otherwise, he’d just double check with his spirit friends and her contingencies would collapse. It’s a rare day indeed when emotion is on her side.

  
The convenience of it all doesn’t cheer her. She rather feels like crying.

  
Solas strokes her hair and nestles closer. It seems he’s trying to comfort himself as much as her. He kisses her shoulder, the back of her ear and her cheek. She turns her head, meeting the needy press of his mouth. His eyes are still clouded and dark with dreams. He seeks reassurance in physical touch. She responds in an unhurried way, parting her lips to the push of his tongue. His caresses are lingering and deep. When he withdraws, he brushes the back of his fingers over her cheek. His eyes are sorrowful and tired.

  
How could she fight him? She’d have to tear out her heart and become stone. She will, of course, if she must. It’s agonizing but true. She wants him free and happy, not caged. She wants him cherished and protected, not betrayed. Even as a contingency, she can scarcely bear to think of her plan now. For the moment, it hurts too bitterly.

  
She tucks it away like a half-finished report. It will sit on a shelf in her mind for the next few days. Then, when she encounters inspiration, she will return to it. Until that moment, she has to shut it away. It will corrode her like poison if left in the forefront of her thoughts.

  
When they rise from bed, Solas shows her where the bath entrance is hidden. His painted trees cover the walls on either side of the opening. They also cover the small corridor beyond it, creating the illusion of a seamless plane. It soon opens up into a wide room with stone walls. An artificial waterfall in the back cascades into a pool of clear water.

  
There are creatures painted on the walls in here too. Just as with many of the beasts on the bedroom ceiling, Lana cannot name them. Some are long like serpents but they have fins and the heads of dragons. Some have dozens and dozens of limbs surrounding a circular, tooth-filled maw. Some of them look like fish with trailing, multi-colored tails. They are terrifying or beautiful or sometimes both at once. She loses her train of thought just examining them.

  
Solas heats the water with a spell and steam fills the room. Neither of them are in a hurry. They bathe leisurely, soaking in the warmth. They do not, however, separate. Solas requires assurance as much as ever and seems to find it in her closeness. Once she washes the sweat from her skin, she goes to sit in his lap. He wraps his arms around her.

  
Lana convinces him to tell her the names of all the creatures on the walls- sea serpents, krakens, sirens- and how Ghilan’nain created them. She finds the stories delightful until he mentions that these very creatures now lurk beyond the keep. Additionally, the murals are not to scale. In the flesh, these creatures can swallow ships.

  
She’s starting to feel apprehensive about their trip up out of the sea.

  
Once they’re inclined to face the day, Solas goes to find them clean clothes. Like the bath, the suite’s closet is concealed. It is a vast space, brimming with luxurious robes, armor, sashes and furs. Many of the garments are made of fabric she doesn’t recognize. Some of them are embroidered with gold. Some of them are embroidered with _light_. Some of them seem to be made of water or smoke.

  
The finest luxuries of the ancient elves were wrought with magic. Solas struggles, it seems, to locate something simple enough for every day wear. Lana gets mesmerized by a cloak that looks for all the world like spun flame. Then he returns with two sets of robes, one gray and one green. These might pass in Orlais as merely exquisite.

  
“I have plenty of clothes for disguises,” Solas explains as they dress, “but I seldom needed them as Ghilan’nain’s guest. We’ll have to make do with whatever is in the suite. Here, you’ll want a clasp for this part.” He pins a loose length of green cloth across her body to her shoulder. The clasp is the gold-inlaid rib bone of a fox.

  
She almost asks about the bone thing but decides against it. He’s old enough to have developed some peculiar affinities. She doesn’t need to examine his tastes. Borrowing clothes from a god is daunting. Living with a god is daunting. Loving, fucking, communicating and interacting with a god is daunting. She clings to what she knows and spins paths out of logic. His next breath might be the gust of wind that casts her away.

  
Of course, Solas insists that he’s _not_ divine. He’s just an immortal, practically invulnerable, massively powerful, exceedingly ancient mage who occasionally answers prayers. That’s all. Nothing special.

  
Honestly, it makes Lana wonder what his definition of ‘god’ is.

  
They leave the keep to eat. The bloody piles of last night’s rams have vanished, as if absorbed by the plant life. She uses spells to knock peaches down from trees, catching them as they fall. The dome of magic holding back the ocean distracts her. Is there a kraken out there in the deep, black waters? Or a sea serpent?

  
Once fed, they return to Ghilan’nain’s puzzles.

  
This is the rhythm of the next several days. As a nomad, Lana has adapted to many environments and many different living spaces. None of her past experiences help her get used to living here. The land outside the keep is so bountiful, it’s more like a self-sustaining pantry. There are always fruits and vegetables. There is always fresh meat. The ancient elves did not suffer a single inconvenience. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

  
Solas’s mood improves over time though he remains subdued. Due to her efforts, he is once more relaxed in her company. He stays close and touches her freely. They sit together when they cook or eat. He stays with her at night. Their lovemaking is gentler but still intense. Sometimes, she must find an excuse to avoid his eyes- putting her mouth on him, putting her back to him, anything. His gaze can be impossible to hold now that she sees the time in it.

  
She loses her nerve. She gets terrified.

  
As for the puzzles, they gradually make progress. On the third day of work, they reach what she thinks is the final room. The geometric tiles cover the floors and the walls. The colors have become more intricate. The patterns they weave contradict the patterns of the shapes. Solas is completely absorbed in them and has been for hours. From the words he murmurs under his breath, she thinks he is working through a mathematical calculation.

  
She leaves him to it, moving about the room. They have gone too deep into the keep for windows. There are two doors, the one they came in from and the one they seek to open. As with all the others, this barricade is covered in a grid of movable shapes. The light in the room emanates from four unobtrusive sconces, one for each corner.

  
Frowning, Solas goes to the door and tries another combination. "The factors of the square root, equivalent to the number of triangles divided by the number of blue lines..." he mutters then curses when it fails. 

  
She listens absently and notices that while three of the sconces have four candles each, the fourth sconce has five candles. She walks up to it and, after a moment's examination, charges it with magic. A grating sound rings through the room. The tiles on the floor retract in a circular motion, revealing a staircase in the middle of the floor. It leads down into darkness.

  
Solas stares at it for a moment, hand still on the false door.

  
“Ah,” he says then. He clasps his hands behind his back in a stately way. “So it was a decoy. How clever of Ghilan’nain. I’ve come to expect elaborate mechanisms from my people. Every other door required a complicated mathematical solution. For the answer to be so simple…” He grimaces. “She knew I would focus on the designs first.”

  
“Always bring a Dalish along then,” Lana advises, peering down the stairwell. “We usually start small and work our way up to insanely complicated.

  
He inclines his head. "Noted."

  
The longer the hole in the floor stands open, the more the air begins to change. The first breath tastes of decay. The fifth and sixth are sharper, like acid. The eighth burns at her throat.

  
“Be careful,” he warns, casting a spell. A pale barrier shimmers in front of her face, purifying the air she breathes.

  
“Poison,” she guesses, coughing a bit. “A defensive measure?”

  
“No, I do not believe so,” he disagrees, moving to descend. “It has been thousands of years since Ghilan’nain dwelt here. No matter how well-preserved, her experiments cannot have remained stable. The lab will be unsafe. Wait here for me.”

  
“What if I stay on the stairs?” Lana bargains. This time, it has nothing to do with trust. This might be her only chance to see Ghilan’nain’s lab. Halla, griffins and all sorts of things were created here. The amount of learning to be had, even from a quick glance, is tantalizing.

  
Solas gives her an odd look but turns away, stepping down into the darkness. “If you like,” he says.

  
She follows him, staying close. The temperature drops the farther they go, raising goosebumps on her arms. The spell he cast blocks out most of the lab’s smell. Some traces of it still reach her however, acrid and rotten. She doesn’t know what to expect. A mage’s study with pens to hold animals? Strange magical contraptions? At the bottom of the stairs, there is total darkness. Solas throws a sphere of mage light into the room. The cold, blue light hurtles up to the ceiling and hangs there.

  
The smell is coming from the tanks. Row after row of cylindrical glass tanks line the walls, many blackened and full of rot. They are enormous, each ten to fifteen feet tall and seven feet in diameter. Those that remain in good condition seem to contain liquid, ranging from murky to perfectly clear. Within these fluids float animals, people or their various dismembered parts. None of them are alive anymore, if they ever were. Lana sees pale, clammy skin and milky, dead eyes. It’s a wonder that the tanks still function well enough to keep them from dissolving.

  
When she tears her eyes away from the nightmarish sight, she sees more horrors. There is an enormous table covered in knives and sharp implements. Beside it, there is another one covered in chains. There are metal instruments she cannot identify, lined up in rows. There is some sort of revolving bookcase, brimming with notes and files. There is an alcove farther in with bars over it. The ground behind the bars is littered with bones.

  
Solas has already walked right in and is searching through the files. The lab continues on, it looks like, and appears to be a series of rooms. Her curiosity turns grim. Instead of wondering at her people’s legacy, she now wishes to study a future threat. Thedas might face Ghilan’nain some day. Moreover, this goddess who molded living creatures to her design is a piece of Solas’s past. Lana can’t afford to sacrifice information.

  
Her eyes sweep the lab again. It isn’t the rot that urges her to recoil. It’s the cruelty.

  
She catches sight of a stack of loose papers, scattered across a nearby table. The sketches snare her attention. Male and female figures are inked into the page, lines gleaming with veil fire. They have long, white hair and horns. There is no doubt in Lana’s mind that they are Qunari. She frowns, perplexed. It doesn’t fit. The Qunari did not appear in Thedas until several hundred years ago. The years since Elvhenan’s fall number in the thousands.

  
She takes a few steps into the lab and picks up the notes. The first page after the sketches seems to be a journal, a slew of thoughts and impressions. The writing is clearly handwritten but the letters are perfect enough to come from a press. It almost hurts to look at them. The veil fire has absorbed the writer’s personality and projects it to Lana now. A sense of calculating coldness washes over her, followed by the burning need to create.

  
  
_Pride spent the last gathering weaving himself amongst us, circulating ideas of freedom. Slavery is his latest target and he battles it willfully. Already, he has won the sympathy of Mythal- though that should come as no surprise to anyone. Prideful Mythal and her Pride. They only pretend to be at odds. Once she speaks in favor, Elgar’nan’s acceptance is guaranteed. The others are vehemently opposed._

  
_I listened objectively to all perspectives. The main opposition I heard concerned the structure of society, the dependency of the economy upon slave labor. Practical Sylaise. She listed all the deleterious effects of emancipation without blinking. She is correct but stagnant- as An puts it. She works with what is in front of her and never goes in search of solutions. I, myself, am more swayed to Pride’s argument._

  
_The People possess indisputable worth. Where else might such ingenuity, majesty and might be found? It is not at all unthinkable to me that every citizen of our Empire deserves liberty. If they are to serve, let it be by choice. There is no vibrancy in the conquered. There is no grace in those who submit. I see such waste._

  
_Pride is correct once again. This is a problem. Still, Sylaise’s points should be observed._

  
_Parameters defined, how might slaves be emancipated without damaging impact? It’s obvious, really. A replacement must be made available to fill the vacuum left by elvhen slaves. Mundane labors do not require the skill and longevity of the People. Let an inferior race be put to use. The quicklings would be my first choice. Children of the Stone, though primitive, cannot be so easily captured. Quicklings, however are frail and easily sickened. They are often unclean and hideous. I can imagine no success should I offer them as a solution._

  
_Let’s specify: an inferior race of superior strength. I shall start with a variety of different species as a base, then improve them. It can be narrowed down once I have prototypes. Of the positive results, several batches to test. Then they may be cultivated to larger numbers. It’s best if they reproduce quickly. Draft one, here. Powerful, clever and obedient. They must not be unsightly for I do not create unsightly things. Let them be horned. Something must be done about the ears. After that, pale hair is best. It will take a while to develop a consistently subservient temperament but the shape, if nothing else, is simple._

  
_I’m feeling inspired._

 

Lana rereads the notes once more, eyes aching and a chill running down her spine. Two steps into the lab and she’s already learned something. The Qunari teach their people not to think, as Solas put it. Ghilan’nain’s notes speak of cultivating a slave race to larger numbers. Does she have other hidden keeps, such as this one? A place where elvhen followers may have bred and raised an entire race of people?

  
Lana’s travels have proven that the ancient elves survived here and there in certain places. With no definitive end to their lifespans, other groups such as the Sentinels might exist. Then again, there are more possibilities concerning the Qunari. Bull mentioned people called the Kossith. The ancient Tevene might have found Ghilan’nain’s research and altered it. The experiments might have broken free and adapted on their own. Nonetheless, these notes confirm the Qunari’s origin.

  
They were created for the purpose of thoughtless servitude. They were engineered to be slaves. Ghilan’nain attempted to instill them with consistent temperaments, before they were even born. In the end, is it such a surprise that they resorted to a totalitarian culture?

  
Lana feels absolutely sick. This- this is the fault of the Elvhen. The damage left behind by their magic lingers everywhere. Ghilan’nain did this for the sake of abolishing slavery among the People. ‘Let the inferior races serve so that the People may be free.’ It’s unthinkable, despicable and mad. Enslaving a sentient creature is a heinous crime, regardless of what sentient creature it is. How could this be the logical solution? A recession of the economy is no means by which to excuse atrocities!

  
Ellana realizes she has crushed the notes in her hand. She’s all but shaking with anger. She reins herself in but doesn’t replace the pages. Instead, she rolls them up and tucks them into her sleeve. When she looks up, Solas is gone. She hears him rifling through papers in one of the lab’s deeper rooms.

  
“ _Honored elvhen.”_

  
The voice is so strained and quiet that she nearly misses it. Then she hears it again, coming from one of the tanks.

  
“ _Gracious elvhen,”_ it whispers in its threadbare voice. “ _Have mercy. Aid me.”_

  
Lana exhales tensely, fixing her eyes on the tank of murky liquid. It's standing against the wall a few paces away. She can’t see what’s inside of it. Her nerves are frayed however. Her magic keeps welling up within her blood, itching to destroy this loathsome place. None of this should exist. None of this should ever have been allowed. How can anything still be alive in here?

  
“Who asks for my aid?” she replies, wary and sad.

  
_“I have no name_ ,” the voice from the tank replies.

  
“What are you then?”

  
“ _What I am is also unnamed_.” It pauses and the liquid stirs. “ _Help me, revered one. Set me free. I have endured for so long.”_

  
“I’m sorry,” she says as gently as she can. “I don’t know that it’s safe. Any attempt of mine could kill you. You might not be able to survive without the tank. I will have to ask my friend.”

  
Logic reminds her to be on her guard. Ghilan'nain is a maker of monsters. If not for the very true fact that tampering with the glass might kill the creature, however, Lana would be inclined to do it. She's furious and filled with grief. If even one of Ghilan'nain's victims could be saved, it would soothe this pain. 

  
The creature is slow to reply, as if parsing through her words. If it was a human, an elf or a Qunari, it would say so. It must be an unknown creation, sentient and capable of learning language. Does it not speak fluent elvhen?

  
Then it erupts in a shout, its voice scratching and scraping like metal. The liquid in the tank roils, splashing madly. “ _No, do not call for your companion! He is Lord Pride! The Evanuris know nothing of wretchedness. Take pity, honored one. You are an elf but still they bind you with their chains. Have mercy on your brethren beneath Elvhenan’s heel!”_

  
“Calm yourself,” she says. “Elvhenan is gone. I know nothing of Ghilan’nain’s craft. If I am to aid you, I _must_ ask Solas.”

  
“ _You need only break the glass…”_ it coaxes. 

  
“How can you know that?" she asks sadly and does not move. "You are the experiment, not the scientist."

  
Solas enters the room then, drawn by the noise. She looks up, opening her mouth to explain. He lifts one hand. Suddenly, the tank is filled with blue flame. The liquid boils, illuminated by the fire. A twisted, black shape writhes within the tank, its great fanged maw gaping open. It is bigger than an elf or a human, quills running down its crooked spine. It bends backward on itself in the flame, razor-like claws curling over its face. Its rows of jagged teeth snap and gnash. Then it dissolves into ashes. The liquid settles and the tank goes dark. Solas lowers his arm, crossing the lab to her.

  
“It only wanted to eat you,” he tells her shortly. He shows her the stack of papers he holds. “I have found what I need. Let’s be on our way.”

  
She stares at the tank, the monster’s writhing shape burned into her retina. The after image blots out the rest of the room. Her empathy, anger and every other wretched feeling linger with it. Solas examines her face then takes her arm. He tows her out of the lab and back up the stairs.

  
She finds her voice as they enter the tiled room above. “It may have wanted to kill me,” she says with an edge, “but it was designed to be as it was. It was warped and mutated. Was it alive in that tank for thousands of years?”

  
“Yes,” Solas says shortly, “I believe so. Ghilan’nain was not permitted to experiment on the People without their consent. It was a condition imposed by Mythal upon her acceptance into the Pantheon. Still, many volunteers would go to Ghilan’nain, asking to be improved. Through this method, she acquired immortal test subjects. And, after all, she created wonders.”

  
Lana shakes her head at his cool tone. “That was a horror. No one would volunteer for such a thing if they knew the outcome. She’s _despicable_.”

  
“I’m glad that you feel that way,” he says, “because I have every intention of killing her. As for the creature…well, it suffers no more.”

  
“True,” she murmurs. She fingers the Qunari notes in her sleeve. Even the beautiful, tiled halls of the upper keep fill her with anger now. All her life, she has dwelt in a realm of mysteries and questions. With each puzzle solved, it seems that every answer will be horrid. Ignorance is blissful indeed and knowledge is a twisted bargain. The Inquisitor cannot afford to sacrifice control for comfort. She can only press on, learning and using her discoveries to protect. She sets her jaw. “Are we finished here then, Solas? Shall we head home?”

  
“Yes,” he concedes, still holding her elbow. “Come this way, my heart. I believe I remember where I’ve left your things.”

  
Solas claimed that he tossed her possessions down somewhere and forgot about them. As it turns out, her winter gear, tools and staff are stashed beneath the couch cushions of the keep’s fifth story reading room. Solas tosses the dusty cushions across the room, shaking his head and saying, “however did your things end up here?” When she fixes him with an unimpressed look, he admits to hiding them away. Apparently, when they first arrived, he expected her to spend their stay looking for ways to escape. Hiding her things was just one more way to deter her.

  
She takes his hand and says nothing. Even if it takes time, she will convince him that she doesn't think he's a monster. With beings such as Ghilan'nain to contrast, it gets easier and easier.

  
Once dressed in familiar clothing, they exit the keep. They walk across the fruitful land, the air smelling of flowers and ocean. The dome above the keep looms closer each step, a wall of liquid darkness. She doesn’t see anything like a staircase, even when the magical barrier is yards away. Solas touches the surface of the dome and it splits, a passage opening. The sound of water rushing and splashing reaches Lana’s ears. In the newly opened pathway, she sees a wide spiral staircase.

  
“It is a long journey,” he tells her, holding her arm as they ascend the damp stone steps. “Taking the eluvian is far preferable. With paths locked and mirrors broken, however, I should accustom myself to inconvenient routes. Many such strongholds will be difficult to access.”

  
“How long did it take you on the way down?” she inquires, straining her eyes to see into the dark waters around them. The ocean coils around the staircase in an endless cylinder. The magical barrier holding the water back seems to emit a faint light. She glimpses shadows moving through the deep beyond it.

  
“Five hours,” he says, “but I ran, carrying you.”

  
She pictures a great, black wolf loping down the steps. Then she tracks the movement in the ocean. The idea of sea serpents and krakens is concerning enough to absorb her attention. Even without Ghilan’nain’s lab putting her on edge, she’s wary. The minutes tick by but nothing comes to attack them. Her calves are burning when she notices how Solas still holds her arm.

  
It seemed like an absent gesture at first, especially back in the keep. He knows the way; she doesn’t. It’s only natural that he should guide her. Now it occurs to her that his grip is very firm. They are leaving the underwater stronghold that, to him, served the purpose of containing her. What is this then, a physical tether to lend him peace of mind? Does he remain distraught from his confession?

  
Still?

  
She thought she’d calmed him. It’s been four days since their conversation on the mountain top. Is it possible that he still feels the need to keep her close? She understands that anxiety looms over them, as dark as the future. Lingering insecurity is a natural result of their quarrel. Nonetheless, they are heading back to Skyhold. She has to explain the dangers to her advisors without compromising her alliance with Solas. She must begin preparations, many of which will require international cooperation. That means arranging meetings with foreign leaders and merchants. How exactly is she to do that with her resident Fade expert glued to her hip?

  
Instead of continuing up the stairs, she turns and goes to the water’s edge. Sure enough, Solas doesn’t release her arm. He goes with her, shadowing her movements. She stares out into the depths, thinking.

  
“Solas,” she says as carefully as possible, “when we return to Skyhold…”

  
“They’ll want to know where we’ve been,” he reasons. He sounds entirely calm. “I suggest we glaze over our disappearance and say we went to observe strange fluctuations in the Veil. That will make a nice lead in to your story of elvhen gods breaking free.”

  
“Yes, that’s probably best,” she agrees slowly. “Alibis aside…do you feel well enough to let go of me?”

  
His answer is instant. “I do not.”

  
“Ah.” She grimaces at the abyssal darkness of the sea. “I understand…and I don’t want you to feel uneasy. I just don’t know how I’ll explain it to the Inquisition.”

  
“In that case, you should use your time wisely,” he says graciously, “and think of an explanation while we travel. My ‘unease,’ after all, is the result of _your_ actions.”

  
She exhales a long breath, chagrined. “I see.”

  
So that’s how it’s going to be. She violated his sacred bargaining rules. She is the cause of the consequence. Since it is veritably her fault, he will not help her with the resulting inconveniences. She's starting to get a sense of this code of his. 

  
Naturally, she spends the rest of the journey thinking.

  
The ascent is exhausting but quiet. The blackness of water ebbs as they emerge from the depths. Only once during the long climb does a sea monster reveal itself. An enormous appendage covered in a briny exoskeleton wraps around the stairs above them. On reflex, Lana throws a barrier over herself and Solas. Her staff is already in hand when she remembers that no, she doesn’t need to protect her companion. No, her steady defenses as a knight enchanter do not oblige her to be his shield. She has hacked through bodies and waded through blood to keep him safe in battle. It was never once necessary. He is a god. His vulnerability was faked.

  
His eyes glow green with the power of the orb. The monster’s limb shifts and withdraws.

  
Later, they step up into the light of the sun. The staircase ends on a smooth stone platform, a foot above the ocean’s surface. The sky is bright and blue, seagulls passing overhead. In the distance, she can see Ferelden’s coast.

  
A silvery shape materializes beside them, green tints of the Fade clinging to its shoulders.

  
“Greetings, most honored Pride,” says the spirit to Solas.

  
“Greetings, Purpose,” he replies. “You bring word?”

  
The spirit flickers, scarcely visible in the bright daylight. “I have made contact with the Remnants of Mythal,” it tells him. “She awaits your arrival at the Crossroads.”

  
Its message finished, it vanishes. Purpose is apparently not the sort of spirit that wastes time.

  
“It found Flemeth?” says Lana, glancing over at Solas.

  
“Indeed,” he affirms, gaze sweeping the skies. “There is a shrine several leagues southwest of here. Its eluvian remains accessible. Let us delay our return and go to the Crossroads. We mustn’t keep Mythal waiting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing in some theories here and there so this might all be debunked three years from now. *shrugs* Whatever. We've got nothing else to do, right? We know the Qunari were an experiment so it made as much sense as anything that Ghilan'nain drafted them up. She's always sticking horns on things.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some technical difficulties with posting this chapter so hopefully it has turned out alright. Thank you so much for your feedback and support! :)

Ellana did a lot of thinking on the journey up. Sure, a good portion of her brain was occupied by the intense burning of her calves. The steps numbered in the thousands. If not for her sharply toned physique and background of outdoor living, she doubts she could have kept up. In the rest of her mind, however, she thought about the gods.

  
Corypheus demonstrated a fine comprehension of timeless political elements. He was no fool. He knew how to weaken his enemies by sowing chaos. He knew how to turn their own fears against them. His plans aimed to destroy nations from within. Thwarting him in time was a challenge. It was still possible. His machinations were not so labyrinthine as to be indecipherable.

  
Then there’s Solas, Mythal and- Lana’s latest revelation- Ghilan’nain. Solas has garnered such confidence with the Inquisition, he could probably convince everyone that invading Nevarra is in their best interests. Mythal has her fingers in just about every pie, bending history to some inscrutable design. Ghilan’nain is an artist who drew all over the earth. Her artificial wonders are indistinguishable from the natural.

  
Neither Lana nor the Inquisition has ever had enemies like this. She has only to think back on Cassandra and Leliana, eating up Solas’s wise advice. He’s not the spy of any mortal nation so they assumed his innocence. The only person who ever thought to suspect Fen’Harel is the Iron Bull. And where can Bull go with that kind of observation? Solas is made more dangerous by his subtlety. Solas is _weird_.

  
It’s like a child, noticing the adults aren’t being entirely honest. He knows something’s wrong. He just doesn’t know what the secret is and he can’t do anything about it. The rest of Thedas is in the same position. Mortals are children and the adults are about to wage war.

  
None of these musings change Lana’s approach. Either she allies with Solas or she steals the orb and imprisons him. Still, it brings things into perspective. A future where Thedas faces the Evanuris without divine allies is _complete shit_. It’s not viable. One god? Maybe. But _seven?_  Fen'Harel and Mythal added, _nine?_

  
It’s certainly incentive to focus on the bigger picture. She has to overlook what she read in the histories, for instance, about Solas contributing to Ghilan’nain’s research. Contributed could mean anything, really. She knows Solas used his discoveries to save people. She also knows that he would readily torture one innocent person to protect several hundred. The ends justify the means. She can visualize him standing there at that chain-covered table, bent over a screaming experiment, creating immunizations to the latest plague-

  
But she’s not thinking about it. Caring about the ends is still caring. The greater good is still good. The relevant point is the imprisoned gods _don’t_ care and their personal triumph is good enough for them.

  
So she’s glad to be meeting Mythal. Of course, she’s scared out of her wits. Over the past few days, Solas has given her a permanent phobia of his distress. She’s compartmentalizing so much of her anxiety that she almost feels Tranquil. Her composure is a lifeline; as long as she’s calm, he’s calm. She’s a bit queasy about adding a second god into the mix.

  
Nonetheless, getting Mythal’s take on things is a way forward. Allies and resources can both be assessed. Once Lana and Solas have a clear idea of what they’re dealing with, they can get down to the ugly business of betraying each other. Or, should things miraculously work out, they can fall over in relief.

  
Solas seems to be thinking along the same vein. He holds one of her hands in his, still with that firm grip. He is unstoppable and resolute. It’s clear on his face.

  
The Crossroads are unchanged when they enter from the eluvian. The air is stale. The path is timeless, empty and cold. Broken rock and scattered pages litter the paving. The distance is shrouded in mist. Stone dragons and wolves watch intermittently over the path, veiled in moss. A chill crawls up Lana’s spine.

  
“I searched for Mythal after awakening,” says Solas, his eyes fixed intently on the path ahead. “I found only whispers.”

  
“Do you think she was avoiding you?” she inquires.

  
“I find that unlikely,” he says. “It’s more reasonable to assume she was in the middle of some endeavor, unable to disengage from it. Many of our pursuits take years to accomplish and I did not tarry long. There was no reason I could not rendezvous with her after the orb was unlocked.”

  
“Well, she’s bound to have noticed the sky blowing up,” says Lana grimly.

  
“Do you think…” he begins but trails off. She glances at him. He shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “I was going to ask if she seemed like herself when you met her. Did she managed to preserve the entirety of her being…or were some parts of her lost, replaced by Flemeth? But it’s pointless. You wouldn’t know.”

  
“She has quite a personality,” she recalls, “imposing and insightful. Then there’s her unnerving sense of humor. She was grim but entirely committed to amusing herself. She was both restless and weary. Does that make sense?”

  
Solas frowns, his brow knitting deeply. “I…am uncertain. That is not how I would describe her. Nonetheless, under the circumstances of her survival…” He trails off again, staring at the path as though it might have the answer. “Perhaps.”

  
Then the path curves and they turn. A courtyard full of mirrors comes into their view, stone trees and statues at its corners. Flemeth stands in the light of an active eluvian, her sharp silhouette black against the glow. She turns her head as they come, blue edging her profile.

  
Solas takes one look and says, “it’s her, Inquisitor. That is Mythal, wholly and entirely.”

  
“Then what became of Flemeth when they joined?” she breathes.

  
“What happens when you pour an ocean into a tea cup?” He drops her hand and leaves her, crossing the courtyard.

  
“This has not been your finest work, my old friend.”

  
Mythal’s voice is gravelly but still it rings like steel. She fills the Crossroads with her presence, sinking deep into each mote of dust. She is perfectly at home here, a ruin of herself in the ruins of Elvhenan. Her stately sadness is flammable. Between grief and vengeance, she is rather inclined to attack. The slightest spark could ignite her old, mutilated fury.

  
Solas does not stoke her anger but Solas is far less important than reprisal. Requiring vengeance is most of what she is.

  
“There were complications,” says the God of Rebellion, closing the distance to his dearest friend.

  
They embrace naturally and without the slightest hesitation, like family reunited. Lana glimpses an intimacy there, more visible still when their foreheads touch, when Mythal cups the back of Solas’s neck. She feels a plummeting sensation in her stomach, the final death of another Dalish legend. Solas was telling the truth. Fen’Harel really is the best of friends with Mythal. The other gods really did murder her. It’s all real.

  
“There have always been complications,” Mythal says then, withdrawing to fix Solas with a golden-eyed gaze. Her face is worn. Her eyes remain sharp enough to cut. “You should have spent more time waking up.” Then a smile flashes over her mouth like a gleaming blade. “Or perhaps you’re losing your touch, old wolf.”

  
He gives her an affronted look. “There was hardly time enough for me to spend a century recovering! Geldauran and Daern’thal could fall any year now. And since when could a quickling mage regenerate his entire body?”

  
She answers in a deadpan. “Since you slept a few thousand years.”

  
He inclines his head, conceding. “So it would seem. My mistake nearly lost me the orb. Fortunately, I secured the aid of a remarkable hero.” He lifts one hand, indicating Lana.

  
Both gods fix their eyes on the Inquisitor. It doesn’t make her feel like a remarkable hero. She feels more like a very unlucky deer, crossing paths with a wolf and his best friend, the dragon. Her soul quails.

  
This is where her latest experiences come in handy. Because her panic has such a bad effect on Solas, she has adapted to react whenever she starts to feel it. She’s petrified with fear? That means it's time to set her shoulders, smile diplomatically and think very fast. It’s practically a reflex at this point.

  
She thinks fast. The best way to deal with Solas is to appeal to him via their relationship. Trust, love, empathy, support. Mythal is more of an unknown quantity. What does Lana know about her? Her followers respect rituals. Polite, young Kieran was treated with warmth. Sharp-tongued Morrigan was treated with antagonistic sarcasm.

  
Mythal appreciates manners.

  
Lana’s awareness of elvhen etiquette has increased drastically since she visited the Vir Dirthara. There are precedents for a situation such as this. With the lengthy complexity of elvhen culture, there are precedents for everything.

  
She folds one arm behind her back and places the other over her heart. Then she bends forty-five degrees at the waist, her eyes fixed on the ground. She does not, however, kneel. It is a demonstration of reverence by a significantly lower ranked person who cannot entirely submit- being, in Lana’s case, the representative of an imperiled group of people.

  
“Hail Mythal,” Lana greets the goddess, “adjudicator and savior. I come before thee with just cause and sure intent. I entreat thee look with favor upon my people, for the safety of whom I toil.”

  
“The deftest manners from the youngest of us,” the Goddess of Justice lauds her, “speaking truth on behalf of the young.” She tilts her head, watching the mortal. “To think we’d meet again so soon. I always have favor for a righteous cause but in war, favor is moot. Your toils are only beginning.” She throws a glance at Solas, eyes narrowed. “How did it come to pass that a child took up your dreams?”

  
“She came upon Corypheus as he unlocked the orb,” Solas replies quietly. “It was not my doing.”

  
Mythal’s gives a shake of her head. “But was it fate…or chance?”

  
“Come here, Inquisitor,” he bids the mortal. He extends his hand.

  
Once more, Lana betrays her instincts. Straying any closer to them seems like madness. Though she has faced many ancient things, it was usually done in battle. She had adrenaline to propel her, a staff to hold in her hand. Walking calmly into Solas’s reach, however, is more necessary than any of her trials. This is a matter of diplomacy. She crosses the courtyard and takes Solas’s hand. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against his side.

  
“Mythal,” he tells his old friend in a tone both rich and bright, “this child of the People has delivered my orb safely unto me. She has felled the creature, Corypheus, and absolved my error. She has bled to protect spirits as readily as the Waking. Because of her toils, the People may yet be saved and your murder avenged.”

  
Mythal examines Lana’s face. Something in the mortal tears beneath the goddess’s cutting stare. She only manages to hold Mythal’s eyes for a moment. Then she looks away, aching horribly inside.

  
“A boon is deserved,” resolves Mythal, “and she has already voiced her wish, has she not? Your commendation speaks for itself, Pride. You intend to shield the mortal nations.”

  
“If,” Solas quantifies, “and only if it does not impede us.” He pauses. “Tell me then. Did you collect the Forgotten Ones as they fell? Or was the one who called himself Urthemiel the first?”

  
“I took them all,” Mythal refutes. “With each of the Blights, I acquired a soul.” She pauses, chortling suddenly, and her dry laughter rattles Lana’s bones. “Anaris’s nearly escaped me, as you can imagine. He was always slippery! Even as a corrupted shadow of himself.”

  
“Five souls then,” he says, looking intently at her. “You have not used the power?”

  
“I _cannot_ ,” she says softly, shaking her head. “I am in no state to wield it.”

  
Anxiety touches his voice. His fingers tighten on Lana’s shoulder. “How bad is the damage?”

  
Mythal doesn’t blink, even as the world aches for reprieve from her gaze. “Far worse than it would seem.”

  
“Show me.”

  
Lana knows instantly that Solas has asked for a terrible thing. She is not given enough time to contest it- assuming she even _could_ contest it. Mythal passes a hand over her face, as if casting away a mask. Exactly like a mask, the visage of an old woman is discarded. In her place is a being rent asunder, perfection cracked into pieces. There is long silver hair. There are pointed, elven ears. There are golden eyes of immortal cruelty. There are horns, real horns, ebon and dark on her head. There is a gaping, black chasm splitting the middle of her face. The fracture webs down her jaw and neck, spreading over her torso. None of the light from the eluvian bleeds through. There is only darkness inside of her broken self, as if she is filled with the Void.

  
It is not a sight Lana’s willpower can dismiss. Her horror is overpowering. Her knees weaken beneath her. The only reason she doesn’t fall is because Solas’s fingers have clamped so hard upon her shoulder that she can’t. There will be a bruise shaped like his hand, emblazoned on her skin. She is so stricken by the sight of Mythal that she doesn’t even feel it.

  
“I…” With his free hand, Solas reaches tentatively out. For once, he is every bit as horrified as Lana. His fingers tremble, brushing over Mythal’s shattered face. “How…could they?” he whispers then.

  
“The correct question,” says the fractured goddess, “is how could they not? Believe me, I have spent a great deal of time reflecting on my death. All the signs were there, my dear friend. We should have foreseen it. Falon’din, Sylaise…Andruil. I wonder only that they didn’t turn sooner.”

  
“ _No!_ ” Solas cries and his wrath stabs at Lana’s ears. His voice rings with an eldritch power; the force of his anger damages. She blinks, dizzied, sagging in the circle of his arm. Something wet trickles from her ear. “No, this treachery is unthinkable! They shall suffer the pain of a thousand deaths! They shall pay in misery and ruin! When I finish with them, there shall be naught but ashes left.”

  
Mythal says nothing. He exhales, shuddering. Lana realizes suddenly that he is not supporting her. _She_ is supporting _him_ , her arm locked in a death grip around his back. He looks down, tears in his eyes and his face ashen. His hand is splayed gently over Mythal’s face, as if to close the chasms. It must be devastating for him to see her in this condition.

  
“We can restore you with the orb,” he theorizes in the softest breath. He nods, almost speaking to himself. “We must try.”

  
“You alone comprehend the weapon you’ve forged,” Mythal tells him. In her current state, the words are haunting. “No other can spin dreams so deftly in the world which was your own. You determine its capacity.”

  
“If the past can be undone. Vhenan.” He straightens, catching Lana’s jaw and turning her face toward him. “With the Anchor, with its precision to steady the orb’s power, it may be possible. Aid me.”

  
Her vision has blurred and she struggles to make it focus. “I want to help, Solas,” she assures him, though her tongue feels leaden. “However I can. But tell me one thing first. If we do this, if we can save Mythal, will you help me protect my people?”

  
“If Mythal is saved,” he whispers vehemently, “I will protect your people as though they are my own. They will _be_ my own.”

  
He means the Dalish, she realizes, or the mortal elves. “And the human nations? The dwarves and the Qunari?”

  
“I will see them through the Veil’s collapse,” he vows shortly. Then his voice rings with command; he seizes her left hand, lifting it. “ _Now aid me!_ ”

  
She feels his magic pushing, sinking in to make her arm its conduit. Gritting her teeth, she primes the Anchor. There is no slowing this, no stopping it. She doesn’t have time to deliberate. Despite the alarming situation, she does recognize one fact. If they succeed, if Mythal is healed, an alliance will be guaranteed. The nightmarish possibility of fighting each other will not come to pass. Lana’s contingencies will be rendered unnecessary.

  
She wishes she had more information. She wishes she knew what sort of being she aimed to unleash upon the world. She’s blind. She can only make the wisest choice possible, based on what she knows. Thus, instead of resisting the events, she accelerates and enables them.

  
Solas grips her wrist, directing the Mark at Mythal. The power that begins to spill through Lana is immense. It comes more fluidly and abundantly than she recalls. Has the orb become stronger? Or is this the superior skill of the mage who wields it? Solas’s direction is masterful. She is a siphon that the power passes through. The magic exits her palm finer and more precise, extending out into the wounds of Mythal. It hooks into remnants of being like stitches of thread. It pulls gently, guiding the fragments back into a shape that only the ancient ones know.

  
This process continues for minutes that stretch into hours. The magic eclipses all else. Lana focuses exclusively on refining the orb’s power, on keeping the Anchor as receptive as possible to it. Solas directs the work. They toil as one, their left hands joined and reaching to Mythal, Solas’s arm around Lana’s shoulder. She can’t feel her feet. She can’t see the Crossroads. Even the eluvian’s blue light submits to the green of the orb.

  
When the second hour passes, her arm seems to be more magic than flesh. A raw, excruciating pain takes root in her being. The power abrades her from the inside out, scraping at her insides. She focuses and tries to block it out. Instead, she slowly drowns in it. When the third hour ends, she begins to wonder if she’ll survive.

  
Then the last fragments come back together and seal. Regardless of the arduous ritual, success is startling and abrupt. The very Fade lurches. There is a backlash, an explosion, a storm. Mythal regains wholeness with ringing force, magic erupting like a tidal wave around her. Lana feels an impact, like something slamming into her chest. Solas’s arm holds her upright but the breath is knocked from her lungs. Her voice goes silent and she realizes belatedly she’d been shouting.

  
Then the energies settle. An elven goddess stands in Flemeth’s place, with pointed ears and unblemished skin. Her features are serene and terrible. She should be beautiful, though cold and imposing. Her loveliness gets lost, however, in the sharpness of her eyes. None will marvel that her hair is silver as moonbeams. Who would dream of sighing at her fine jaw and high cheekbones? She’s terrifying. The sight of her face could chill blood and her glance could stop hearts. Those who look upon her will only see power. They will quail before the being who passes judgement.

  
Mythal closes her golden eyes, slowly rolling her neck. She sighs with a languid and frightening satisfaction, _“aaahhh.”_

  
“It’s done,” Solas chokes out, his voice breaking. “It truly worked- dearest one, my old friend-”

  
“It’s disorienting,” Mythal muses, lifting one hand and inspecting it. “I’ve spent thousands of years with an incongruity, memories eclipsing my present, knowledge exceeding my abilities, desires surpassing my strength. And now I am whole once more! I might become giddy, Pride.” She pauses. “Oh, mind the girl! She’s about to drop dead.”

  
Solas blinks and looks sharply at Lana. He takes in the blood spilling out her nose and ears, then the light of the Anchor which has put green cracks webbing up to her shoulder.

  
“Oh no,” he murmurs, scooping her into his arms and laying her down on the ground. His eyes turn green with the power of the orb; the cracks gradually recede, returning to her palm. Then his hands fill with white healing magic.

  
“We must find a way to make you more durable,” he tells Lana as the pain in her head lessens. “Why is there blood? The ritual shouldn’t have-”

  
“That’s from when you vowed to exact vengeance upon my slayers,” Mythal informs him, also kneeling beside the mortal. “Uthenera ebbs the more you force yourself awake. You are nearing full strength.”

  
“Ah,” Solas replies shortly. Apparently full strength among the Evanuris means he has the ability to cause internal hemorrhaging with his voice. “Forgive me, Inquisitor. I’ll not lose my temper again.”

  
“Oh, I’m fine,” Lana rasps once the words concede to line up intelligibly. It‘s true even. There are two gods bending over her. Thanks to the pain, she is much less vastly unnerved. “Have I told you about the time I nearly froze to death after I got buried under a mountain?”

  
Mythal snorts. “Plucky!”

  
“The Inquisitor has decided to be impossible,” Solas concludes coolly, finishing his spell. He gathers Lana up in his arms once more, embracing her tightly. Then he bursts out laughing, the joyous sound coming from deep in his chest. “Triumph!” he exults. “All is saved! The suffering of the People shall be avenged and a new era begun! I named you falon’vhen once before, Ellana Lavellan, when I thought myself alone. The rank requires the favor of at least two Evanuris. Mythal?”

  
“Falon’vhen,” Mythal agrees and the word catches in the air, weaving a mantle of magic. It settles over Lana’s shoulders and seeps into her skin. The sensation is electrifying.

  
She isn’t familiar with the term, aside from the party after Corypheus’s defeat when Solas first called her by it. Literally, it means ‘the People’s friend.’ In this context, it’s likely translated as ‘the People’s champion.’ If she has suddenly acquired an obscure elvhen title, she’ll need to research it stat. She blinks a few times, trying to think of how to get Solas from Crossroads to Skyhold to books. Her thoughts are still a bit sluggish.

  
“I’ll wait no longer,” Mythal informs Solas, her gauntlet-clad hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “I go to the People. Then, to strongholds our kith left behind. We have the power to breach the best of their sanctums now. They shall return to a world deprived of resources.”

  
“So shall it be,” he says and fervently clasps her arm. “For the People!”

  
“For the People,” she answers and rises. Then she steps through the mirror.

  
  
o0O0o

 

“Josephine is arranging meetings with ambassadors from the southern nations,” Leliana says three days later. “Tevinter, Par Vollen and Seheron will take more time. Once lines of communication are open, the real trial begins. We must convince our allies that the threat is real. It’s fortunate we acquired this information while our victory is fresh in everyone’s mind.”

  
The spymaster is giving her report in Ellana’s tower room, standing in front of the fire. The Inquisitor sits at her desk, nearly buried in paperwork. The closest file is the information Leliana refers to- a completely fabricated record of disturbances in the Veil, ‘indicating’ an impending collapse. Beside it is a translated copy of Solas’s defense system. The pair of files is both problem and solution in neat packaging. It’s the logistics that are messy.

  
Solas and Lana returned to Skyhold several days ago, finding the Inquisition in an edgy mood. Scouts were still out, roaming the Frostbacks in search of their missing leader. The mages were buzzing with talk of strange dreams and magical disturbances. Leliana was apparently so vexed by her inability to track Ellana, or even discover how Solas left the keep, that she resorted to unconventional methods. At her behest, Varric asked Cole to find Solas in the Fade.

  
Cole is reported to have said, “but he doesn’t need my help. _She’s_ helping him.” When asked where Solas and Ellana were, he said, “with the greatest creations, listlessly drifting in the dark, where inspiration cut and stitched pieces together.”

  
No one found this helpful.

  
Lana gave her advisors an apologetic explanation of how she and Solas had noticed a discrepancy in the Veil and rushed off to study it. Since this didn’t account for how she’d seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth, Leliana was not pleased. Since Lana’s alibi was accompanied by an observation journal full of deeply alarming data, Cullen and Josephine weren’t pleased either.

  
Basically, Lana has gone ahead with her plan. She upholds that the Breach severely weakened the Veil and something seems to be breaking free. The data Solas all but conjured up supports the claim. More interestingly, the Veil is actually fluctuating. Any mage who double checks his notes is likely to predict a collapse. Only a god could make a lie this believable. Now the Inquisition is preparing to convince Thedas to one, relocate all their citizens to populated areas, two, stockpile food and three, allow construction of Solas’s defense system. 

  
It’s crisis management. Even with several years for preparation, however, Lana is at her wit’s end figuring out how to make it work. How will she convince nations to make such drastic and costly changes? How will she convince farmers to leave their lands for the city? Worst of all, what is she to do about her own people? The Dalish are scattered to the wind. Solas’s shields cover only populated areas and, to the Dalish, populated areas mean death.

  
That’s what the rest of her paperwork concerns- logistics, logistics and terrifying logistics.

  
“It hasn’t really sunken in yet,” Leliana continues, staring into the fire. “I suppose it’s just a shock. I’ve read the data over and over but it doesn’t seem real. We won. The righteous prevailed. Why must we prepare for yet another disaster? How will Thedas react when news of this gets out? We’re so battered.”

  
“At least we have some advance warning this time,” says Lana grimly.

  
“Not enough,” the spymaster murmurs, firelight reflected in her eyes. “Two years, three, it won’t matter. There is no possible way to usher everyone into sixty-four protected zones. They will stay behind, planning to weather the storm. Then the demons will consume them. We must continue our research, find some way to prevent this…”

  
There is no way to prevent this.

  
Leliana shakes her head, turns to face the Inquisitor and forces a smile. “Listen to me go on! I should not add to your burdens. And with the weather being this marvelous too. Can you believe all the flowers? I’ve heard of plants that lie dormant, waiting for the right conditions- but it’s two weeks into winter.”

  
Then there’s Lana’s other extremely enormous, mind-boggling problem: Fen’Harel and his joy.

  
Apparently, when a god is very, very happy, there are wipe spread effects. Skyhold is already seeing several of them. Wolves howl all night, their eerie song echoing across the Frostbacks. The sun is shining. The weather is superb. Every vine, tree and shrub in Skyhold has burst into bloom. The air is perfumed with the fragrance of blossoms. At this very moment, a gentle breeze is carrying stray petals onto Lana’s balcony.

  
Since vines cover many of Skyhold’s walls and towers, the fortress is literally sheathed in flowers. There are butterflies everywhere.

  
She resists the urge to bang her forehead on her desk. Instead, she glances to her left where the god in question is sitting. She ended up telling her advisors that Solas has to be near her because of the Anchor. Constant physical contact, her lie goes, is the only way for him to stabilize it. She assured them it was a temporary measure. Some of the workers brought up an extra table and chair. Solas promptly covered his new desk in Ghilan’nain’s notes.

  
He is set up kitty-corner to her now, her left hand linked with his right. He is ignoring her and Leliana’s discussion, reading peacefully.

  
Nothing about his attitude is inconspicuous. He isn’t jumping for joy or beaming at everyone. Nonetheless, environment-altering magic is bound to draw someone’s suspicions. Despite Lana’s increasing concerns, however, she can hardly tell him to be gloomy. His dearest friend is returned to him. The devastating loss that began the fall of his empire is reclaimed.

  
She never knew how much his grief weighed on his shoulders until now. It’s like a cloud-choked sky receding and yielding to the sun.

  
“Magical energies have been known to disrupt the seasons,” she tells Leliana instead. “Perhaps the Breach or the Veil caused this. Or perhaps it’s one of Skyhold’s annual flukes.”

  
The spymaster accepts the explanation readily enough, saying her goodbyes with a pensive smile. An ugly, wrenching feeling churns Lana’s gut as she leaves the room. The Inquisitor is deceiving the very people who gave her their loyalty. She aids the architects of disaster, sacrificing every innocent she cannot protect for spirits and Elvhenan. No mortal nation would offer up their citizens’ lives for those of spirits. It would be unthinkable to them. She is choosing spirits and a dead nation over real, living people- and she has no right to judge which is more worthy of existence. No one, god or mortal, has that right. For this reason, her choice feels like the grimmest betrayal.

  
Logically though, it’s the only choice.

  
Even if she hadn’t given him the orb, Solas would be a severe threat to Thedas. No one would be able to catch him. No one would even know that he’s Fen’Harel. He would have disappeared as he pleased, pursuing his aims from the shadows. In blissful ignorance, Thedas would have been more vulnerable than ever. Then, unable to wield her soul collection, Mythal likely would have bequeathed it to Solas.

  
Instead of two unstoppable Evanuris committed to preserving mortal Thedas, there would have been one unstoppable Evanuris committed to destroying everything. The Veil would come down either way. Thus, Lana stands by her decision.

  
As for the lying, it’s unavoidable. If she were to inform her advisors that Solas is responsible for the Breach- or that he intends to tear down the Veil himself- they would demand he be tried as a war criminal. He _is_ a war criminal, certainly, and they would not be wrong to do it. Unfortunately, survival requires Fen’Harel’s allegiance. Annoying him with ineffectual human justice would be counter-productive. As far as she is concerned, he can repent by keeping everyone alive.

  
It’s a miserable, fucking headache- but such is the nature of necessity.

  
She rearranges some papers on her desk. Then she rubs at her eyes. Rather than plan out her strategy for dealing with world leaders, she wants to crawl into bed and sleep two thousand years. The ancient elves were brilliant when they thought of Uthenera. It’s the quintessential cure for threadbare souls and broken hearts.

  
The chair beside hers creaks. Solas’s hand releases hers, coming to rest instead on the back of her head.

  
“It’s tempting to wear yourself thin over it,” he tells her, leaning back in his chair to watch her. “Believe me. I’ve had the dubious honor of being in this same position- a leader forced to choose between catastrophe and annihilation. You must pace yourself. Recognize when you have time to rest. Make yourself stop.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “For your people’s sake as much as yours. It will help you think clearly.”

  
She meets his gaze and once again marvels at the change in him. She saw him at his happiest after Corypheus’s death. His triumph felt like high summer, a blazing white sun concentrated into a smile. Now he is gentle and caring, as often he has been, but the intention reaches her. It makes her feel as though a warm blanket has fallen over her shoulders.

  
She smiles a bit, if tiredly, and touches his head in turn. “So,” she says, running her finger through the auburn fuzz on his scalp. It's the same color as his eyebrows, rich brown with a red tint. “You’re really growing it back?”

  
“Ha,” he scoffs, eyes bright with amusement, “and the other possibility is what? I forgot, in my happiness, to shave my head?”

  
“It makes you look younger,” she says seriously. “You could pass for thirty-eight thousand now.” 

  
It says volumes about their cultural differences that he lets that go without comment. Thirty-eight thousand. Why not?

  
“Our People place a high value on beauty,” he says instead, taking on that lyrical tone of voice. She’s in for a story. “The most intricate, magic-made clothes are coveted. Long hair full of plaits and ornaments is vainly cherished. For this reason, it is custom for us to shave our heads and dress plainly when we experience loss- a grief so devastating and irrevocable that our beauty no longer matters. When Mythal was slain, I made this gesture. Nothing I did, however, came close to conveying my anguish.” His eyes dance then and he smiles radiantly. “But Mythal survived! I shall take up my vanity once more.”

  
Lana hesitates a moment too long to reply, mesmerized by his vivacity. She feels physically drawn to him, as if by gravitational pull. She has no opinion of his choice to grow out his hair. Appearances have never been important to her. When she first met him, she discovered his fascinating trove of insights all delivered in a mellifluous voice. She thought to herself 'he's like a living book!' From that point on, the sight of him was a delight and her mind was full of ways to get him talking. She covets knowledge and its containers. 

  
Now, it's his emotions that leave her entranced. She blinks a few times, trying not to fall under his spell. “Ornaments?” she asks finally. “Like those bones in Ghilan’nain’s keep?”

  
“Yes,” he affirms, standing. He stretches, the muscles of his back rolling beneath his shirt as he lifts his arms. He holds them there above his head for a moment then drops them back down. He leans his hip casually against her desk.

  
The movements are loose and languid, an air of decadence conveyed even in stillness. Her eyes run down the length of his body before she catches herself. His hand is poised on the edge of her desk, all long fingers and fine bones.

  
“Leave your work for now, vhenan,” he coaxes her. She looks quickly back up to his face. “There's something I wish to discuss.”

  
“Certainly,” she says vaguely, standing up. He extends his hand, smiling sweetly at her. She goes around the desk to him, joining their fingers. He takes a hold of her chin with his free hand, examining her face. She begins hoping that his idea of conversation was a ruse. He is being remarkably distracting and she'd love to be more distracted. By running her hands over him, wrapping herself around him, she could forget her fears.

  
If he does mean to talk, perhaps she should start something herself. She’s been careful about seducing him too often, instead letting him take the lead. If she wants him to trust her with his secrets, she needs to stop using sex to breach his defenses. She’s aiming for an equilibrium of mutual consideration. Still, things have changed. Before Mythal’s restoration, she walked on thin ice. Now he’s happier than he’s ever been. They’re not fighting. He isn’t upset.

  
She could probably get away with it. Her eyes fall to his lips.

  
“How are you holding up?” he asks her. Is this what he wants to discuss?

  
“I’m fine,” she says automatically, leaning in to brush her lips over his. He stops her, pressing a finger to her mouth. It takes a notable amount of self control not to lick it.

  
“I thought you would say that."

  
He sounds neither angry nor distressed. Still, his somber tone of voice raises her guard. His eyes are difficult to read but she can tell one thing. He isn't at all satisfied with her answer. 

  
"You're highly skilled at concealing your emotions," he says then. The words are praise but he speaks them as though stating a fact. "That level-headed calm of yours is so smooth, I don't even know when you puzzled out my identity. You never reacted! One moment, it was my secret. The next, you encountered a wolf on a mountain top and greeted him with my name. It's been the same thing ever since. I tell you my devastating errors and frightening plans; you're fine. I walk around in my true form, great and ancient, and you don't bat an eye. I push you to your limits out of spite and still, nothing. Then you nearly die in a ritual to revive Mythal and all you have to say is that you're fine?" He fixes her with a hard, penetrating look. "Nonsense."

  
"Of course I reacted," she says, taking his hand from her mouth and holding it in hers. She smiles a bit to deflect his assertions. "It's just that if I understand what's happening, if I have ways to pursue more information, there's no reason for me to panic."

  
"I very much doubt that is the case," he returns flatly. "Any compassionate and genuine person would find your experiences traumatizing. It stands to reason that I have caused you great pain. Shielding you from pain was why I distanced myself in the first place. You recall, in Crestwood, when I left you? It was all for naught. We began quite badly, my heart. I must address the damage."

  
"Why?" she asks him earnestly, fingers tightening on his. "What sense is there in examining it? Everything has turned out well!"

  
“The consequences remain,” he disagrees. “Towers are built upon foundations. The future is built upon the past. I backed you into a corner, deserted you without explanation, and thus you resorted to tempting me. It was an understandable choice and you are not to be blamed for it. It was still manipulation, a form of attack I have experienced many times." He looks away, staring out the balcony doors at the sky. "At that time, I was undergoing the most vulnerable period of my life. I had lost Mythal, I had lost my people. I walked in the wretched ruins of my empire, knowing I myself struck it down. I was scarcely awake, magically weak and weary. I had fallen in love with a child against my own moral code. For these reasons, because you bent me to your will, I felt deeply threatened. I retaliated in kind, on reflex, weaponizing my submission. I was _furious_ with you.”

  
“I know,” she replies uneasily, stepping back a little. "But we've worked through all that. You feel better now, don't you?”

  
“Indeed," he affirms, his eyes flicking back to her. A jolt runs through her, just because his gaze is timeless and difficult to meet. "This conversation, however, is about _your_ feelings- not mine. I have not treated you as I should have. I have embraced you like an enemy, seeking to dominate your will and defend myself. That is the sort of intimate relationship I am used to, a familiar contest of persuasion. Manipulation is appetizing and natural to me. With you as my partner, however, it is inappropriate and wrong. My hostility put you on the defensive in turn. On top of wrangling with my confessions and the shocking truths therein, you had to be wary of my anger. _You could not show weakness._ In retrospect, it’s a horror." He leans toward her, reclaiming the distance she took. He uses his hold on her hand to pull her close. "I love you so fiercely," he says, eyes intent. "That I have failed to cherish you disrespects both my feelings and your intentions. You were trying to help. What's more, you _did_ help.”

  
“Solas,” she says, exhaling heavily, shaking her head. “I’m not fragile. You don’t have to worry about-”

  
“Stop.” His gaze is powerful, holding hers with force. “It is not necessarily a question of strength. Even if we assume you’ve emerged from this unscathed, I am not comfortable with it.”

  
Lana doesn’t have a reply for this. Her perspective and priorities are too different. She hates that she caused him pain but, as he said, what else could she have done? He is fine now. Thedas has a chance. With everything they face, he’s worried about how they’ve been having sex? How he has treated her? Her past fears and sorrows don't matter. She wants to discard them as quickly as possible, making room for new troubles. She only has enough energy to care about results.

  
“What does this mean then?” she asks him finally. She'd say almost anything to be done with this discussion. “Is there something you want me to do?”

  
“When you first asked me to share my troubles,” he says softly, caressing her cheek, “it seemed futile. My catastrophic mistakes solved by someone so young? I thought it impossible. Then against the odds, you became my savior. You were right all along. You have my complete confidence. If possible...I wish to attain yours." He presses his lips to her forehead. "Depend on me. Trust me.”

  
The words are moving, enthralling even. He is offering her the same ideal she once visualized, before she killed Corypheus and gave him the orb. They could be partners and allies, sharing happiness and hurts, solving problems and celebrating together. She struggled to breach his walls for this very desire. The idea of his trust made her feel happy, confident and secure. It's more complicated now. She fell in love with a persona- an aspect of a greater, older and vastly more dangerous being. She is just as smitten with him and just as affected by his pain. However, she no longer feels safe. He remains the trickiest and most ruthlessly intelligent being in all of history- the Trickster God, the Traitor Wolf.

  
In the style of Josephine Montilyet, Lana tactfully quantifies. “I _know_ how much you care about me. I don't doubt your commitments either. You’ve said you’ll help me protect Thedas and I believe you. That’s why I can look forward with hope.”

  
“Looking forward with hope,” he repeats pleasantly, “completely calm and at ease?”

  
“Calm and easy _enough_ ,” she insists.

  
“Liar."

  
She fidgets beneath his unimpressed and unrelenting stare. Then she gives a shake of her head, turning away. He catches her shoulders and pulls her back. Her composed expression cracks somewhat. Silence falls, disrupted only by the mountain winds.

  
“You needn’t do that anymore, vhenan,” he whispers, trying to catch her evasive eyes. “I am well now. I can support myself. You don’t need to be invincible.”

  
“Don’t I though?” she argues, her voice damnably thick. There's a treacherous lump in her throat. “If I falter, if I can’t get the world ready in time- the Inquisition looks to me-”

  
“Then lead them as you should,” he says steadily, “and rely on me when you require help. I will advise and aid you. My knowledge is at your disposal. I have fought many wars and triumphed in all but one- the one we fight now. Instead of desperately hiding your concerns, share them with me. We will find solutions.”

  
She stares at him wide-eyed, trying to think. He’s persuasive. She can believe that he is truly sincere. She's simply terrified of making another mistake, like that night on the mountain. She's terrified of him finding out she's terrified. Is it alright to breathe easy? Could she vocalize her thoughts without jeopardizing everything? The more she endures, the more she believes trust is intrinsically illogical. Everyone's an enemy. Every action not calculated leads to chaos. Strength is both safe and exhausting. She agonizes internally, aching to give in but still unable to. Nonetheless, she must tell him something. She steals a line from him, swallowing.

  
“I’ll work on it."

  
He holds out his arms, offering. She steps into his embrace, letting him draw her close. She lays her head against his chest, fighting conflicting feelings of fear and relief. It's so seductive, the idea of his help. The shemlen claimed Andraste protected her and she thought their superstitions ridiculous. Even when the most devout Andrastians scream for the Maker to save them, no one answers. No help comes. Solas, however, is real. He knows almost everything. He can solve problems as inevitable as death. He is her ally but now he suggests his help is personal. She can depend on him, a god...if she dares.

  
Perhaps she'll try it, if cautiously. He _never_ needs to know how much he frightens her, of course. Her concerns for Thedas and its peoples, however, might be safe enough to share.

  
“I’m worried about rural settlements,” she confesses abruptly. His arm tightens around her, an encouraging hand petting her hair. She stares at the fabric of his shirt. “During disasters," she presses on, "people dig themselves in. Rather than venture into unknown territory, they try to weather it out in their homes. But if they do that this time, they'll _die_. I have to convince them all to relocate to protected areas. I don't know how. How will I even spread the word?”

  
“I may have some ideas,” Solas assures her, tenderness brimming in his voice. It warms her all the way down to her toes, instant in its potency. It makes her anxiety quieter. He releases her, taking her hand. “Let’s sit,” he says, towing her across the room to the divan. “We’ll consider our options.”


	10. Chapter 10

Ellana does not worry about herself. Perhaps it’s the deceptive luxury of magic. She wouldn’t say she’s reckless or that she ever has been. Even so, she always knew as a child that spells can knit flesh. If she scraped her knees, she could make the damage vanish. If she broke a bone, the Keeper could mend it. Yes, injuries hurt and sometimes they hurt terribly. Due to the immediate availability of magic, however, her suffering never lasted.

  
She grew up that way. She developed a habit of dismissing pain. Likewise, she’s inclined to dismiss her emotional hurts. Magic fixes physical injuries. Negative emotions can often be fixed by addressing the source. When Solas broke up with her, for instance, and refused to explain why, she attempted a simple process. She sought to first, identify the problem, second, think up solutions and lastly, proceed with the most viable one. Working toward an established goal is the best coping mechanism; it _solves the problem_.

  
Grieving never occurred to her. What would grieving solve?

  
Practicality is a demon of its own, perhaps. She can backlog her feelings indefinitely but the strain starts to build up. In the case of protecting Thedas from the latest impending apocalypse, the strain builds up rapidly. Comprehension begets control. She chases knowledge for the sake of preserving the lives around her. Making the wrong choice will mean lives lost. It is only natural for her to fear failure. The more she succeeds, however, the more it seems people pour their lives into her hands. The weight turns heavier. The dread of uncertainty grows.

  
The humans call her holy and use myths to justify her authority. They give her the hardest decisions, blithely assuring themselves she has Andraste’s divine guidance. Unfortunately, Lana is just as fallible as anybody; no prophet whispers to her. Oh, she’s fine if she has a plan but each warm-blooded life she guards requires yet more painstaking detail.

  
In the face of disaster, she just wants to know that her measures are effective- that she can optimize security and minimize loss. Instead, she sees the looming peril as too great. Securing an alliance with Solas and Mythal improved her forecast considerably. She’ll be able to save a large majority of people. If thousands are still caught in the tides of disaster, however, she can only agonize. Her provisions are not enough.

  
Her dread is a snarl inside of her, woven and twisted in on itself. With calm and patience, Solas takes it up. By plying her with wine, he loosens it. He listens to each of her concerns. Then he suggests ways to improve her methods. Where mortal means are insufficient, he offers his own. Point by point, issue by issue, he untangles the knots.

  
First and foremost, he reflects that religion is ubiquitous. Every culture to ever exist has created one. People do not worship because gods whisper to them. They worship because they all face the same terrifying problems: helplessness, grief, doubt and fear. Religion is a coping mechanism that the powerless cannot do without. Those batted about by fate require comfort; they attain it by believing a higher power protects them.

  
Summarized, even the most backwater human village has a place of prayer. The vast majority are Andrastian. By utilizing the Chantry, with Leliana’s say perhaps, Ellana can spread her warning to all ends of Thedas. The idea inspires her and eases her fear. Still, she doubts even priests can instill enough urgency. Won’t there yet be people who refuse to leave their homes?

  
In answer, Solas promises to send them dreams. He has allies in spirits of Anxiety and Fear. When such emotions embodied touch their dreams, even the most stubborn of mortals will take warnings seriously.

  
Lana’s other concern is the Dalish. She tells him of her people, their precarious and sparse survival. She must convince world leaders to set aside land for the Dalish. Then she must convince the Dalish to actually take shelter on it. Her people have no trust whatsoever in human powers. As the head of a human organization, she fears they will have no trust in her. Additionally, the character of each clan is unique. They are no longer one nation with one culture. They are distant sixth cousins who reunite every ten years for drinks.

  
“You are the People,” says Solas. “You are not alone. Mythal and I endure. Regardless of politics, we shall guide and empower you.”

  
Those are the words that lull her into deep and dreamless sleep. They are the words she remembers upon waking. Relief lessens the weight of her responsibilities. She feels happy enough to cry and strong enough to fight. She will not falter. She will proceed with negotiations and forge a path for the world. Should the worst occur, she has Solas’s assurance.

  
She wakes up late in the night, groggy and relaxed. She’s lying on her divan, a blanket draped over her body. The fire still burns in the grate, spilling its dim light across the room. Her head is resting on Solas’s thigh, parchment rustling whenever he turns the page of his book. She blinks, staring sleepily into the flames. She drank too much wine. Solas kept summoning it for them from the barrels in her closet.

  
She rolls onto her back, head turning in his lap until she looks up at him. The flickering light of the fire casts shadows across his face, highlighting each line of bone. His eyes are fixed on his work, lines of concentration between his brows. She finds herself admiring his chin, smiling to herself. She drank so much the previous evening that she’s still somewhat buzzed. She reaches up and touches his lower lip.

  
He gives a small hum and kisses her finger. “Look who’s awake,” he greets her warmly.

  
“Hello, ma sa’lath,” she says. Even her voice feels fluid and easy. She lets her hand slide from his mouth, dragging fingers down over his neck and chest. His clothes seem so humble but the fabric is fine- yet another deception. She studies the stitches in the cloth.

  
“I’ve nearly finished reviewing the fruits of our theft,” he tells her absently, his eyes still on his work. “Ghilan’nain’s research. She studied the difference between elvhen and shemlen genetics, especially in regard to lifespan. They cannot conduct magic as we do; that is why they decay. Their bodies do not replenish and sustain energy. This is detailed and priceless information; her studies are truly without flaw. I will use them as a base when I examine the effects of the Veil upon our People. It should be simple to isolate the damage dealt. Reversing it, however…”

  
“I think we should focus on the war,” Lana mutters, pressing her face against his stomach. “Mortal elves are resigned to death. Won’t we just regain our longevity over time once the Veil is gone?”

  
“Eventually, perhaps,” he murmurs. “Over several generations. It would be far too late for the elves of today. I have lost my empire. Millions of lives have flickered out as I slept. I won’t suffer to lose hundreds of thousands more. Don’t be resigned to death, vhenan. It is not natural to you. You and your kith are _ill_. You are not mortal.”

  
“It sounds unreal,” she muses, considering eternity. “Actually having time enough to read all the books I want to read, to see every place in the world...”

  
“You will have it.”

  
She sits up, looking at him. His notebook rests on the divan’s arm. Sheaves of Ghilan’nain’s notes hover in the air around him, catching the firelight. She shifts closer, laying a hand on the side of his face. He consents to kiss her, turning to meet the press of her mouth. She tastes wine, dipping her tongue between his lips. She feels warm everywhere. There’s a heat kindling in her now that her weariness is gone. She hasn’t touched him since they left the sea, not like this. There was too much work. Then he wanted to talk about her defenses, her facades of calm.

  
Let it be over now. She plies his lips in a needy way. She runs her hands over his face and caresses his ear. She steals her way onto his lap, curling against him, coaxing his tongue to twine with hers.

  
He exhales into her mouth, parchment rustling as he sets his reading aside. He holds her face in both of his hands, fingers cradling her jaw. He angles his head, tongue delving deep past her lips. He strokes her hair then runs his hands down her arms. He puts an arm around her waist and pulls her closer.

  
“Tell me what you like,” he bids her, breaking away to kiss her cheek. He speaks against her skin. “Hmm? What are your desires?”

  
She tilts her jaw, rests her hand on the back of his head and licks the blade of his ear. He inhales shortly, a rougher sound escaping his throat. “That,” she tells him huskily, nibbling his earlobe. “The noise you make when I surprise you.” She nuzzles the hollow behind the edge of his jaw. “I love you, my dearest one,” she breathes. “Your happiness is like the summer. Now there is light in my heart.”

  
He gives her one of those smiles that melts her inside. When she goes to kiss him again, however, he turns away.

  
“I misspoke,” he says after a beat, holding her face once more with his thumbs beneath her eyes. His gaze flits down to her mouth before meeting hers once more. “I should have said ‘tell me what you don’t like.’”

  
She stills. This is going to be another one of his ‘talks.’ She can tell. Why does he keep voicing unpleasant subjects? She has just begun to feel confident again, assured of their chances. She only wants to savor it, to revel in a moment’s peace. Instead, he has set himself to deconstructing her psychological armor.

  
She gives him an even look. “I dislike pointless conversations.”

  
“Ah, I see,” he says with an air of revelation. “How fortunate then that this discussion is important!”

  
She glances away, looking over his shoulder at the darkened windows. “We already spoke last night,” she points out, a little edgily. “What more can there be? The morality of our age difference again?”

  
“That’s a lost cause,” he says flatly. “No. I wish to explore paths to a trusting relationship, especially in regard to intimacy. I do not mean to reject you; I wish to hold you again as well. I simply think that a lot of our problems begin here.”

  
“A lot of our problems _end_ here,” she disagrees, eyes snapping back to his face. “Seducing you was the only thing I could do when you shut me out.”

  
“I understand,” he concedes. He’s speaking carefully. “I must make a commitment to you then. The fights…clearly must stop. Working through troubles via sex causes more problems than it solves. Let’s keep our distance if we’re quarreling. From now on, I will not shut you out. You needn’t fear I’ll desert you. I will return once calm and we will talk things through. I promise.”

  
She exhales faintly. The glow of a minute ago has disappeared. “Yes, of course,” she says haltingly. “I agree. I’ve caused you to feel manipulated, attacked-”

  
“And I have used intimacy to punish you for it,” he finishes.

  
Something inside of her wrenches. Unlike their worldly troubles, this doesn’t feel better when discussed. She almost preferred not knowing his perspective. His admissions of vulnerability pain her, illuminating how he was hurt. He illustrates her seductions as manipulation and she must agree that’s exactly what they were- even if she never thought of it that way at the time. His descriptions of his counterattacks are painfully frank. The pleasure muddled everything like a poison. She felt frayed and taxed and in over her head. Still she loved it. He pleasured her, defeated her and then used her when she collapsed. She struggled to match him like a drowning fawn but she woke the next morning craving his touch.

  
He told her she was destroying him, that she was the bane of his existence; instead of backing down and offering comfort, she dismissed his pain as _necessary_.

  
She jerks her head out of his hands, desperate to hide her expression. He seizes her and pulls her against his chest, letting her tuck her face into the crook of his neck. She exhales again but shakily, more ragged. Her next breath is just as sharp and far too close to a sob.

  
“Shh,” he whispers, anchoring her with his embrace. “Hush, vhenan. It won‘t happen again. We’ll make it better.”

  
“I didn’t _want_ to hurt you-” she chokes, nearly gagging on the words. _Why_ are they speaking of this? Some things should not be said.

  
“And I would have given you hundreds of years,” he says vehemently back, “to learn and explore in peace! I would have seen you with a world of freedom and beauty. That, and nothing less, is what you deserve. Barring such a dream, I would have spared you all the pain I could. I’m so sorry.”

  
She has no reply. Words are too taxing. She shudders instead, clinging to him with fistfuls of his shirt. He pets her hair and her shoulder. She has curled in on herself, her knees drawn up on the divan. She won’t weep. Tears are a waste of time. Pain is a waste of time. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be efficient. What’s gotten into his head? Perhaps seeing Mythal’s wounds drove him mad.

  
“More wine,” Solas concludes at last. She hears liquid pouring and then he presses a cup into her hand. “Drink,” he urges her, brushing her hair back. “It will help.”

  
“I only like Ferelden ale,” she fibs.

  
“Really.” He says nothing else after that. He waits.

  
She listens to the fire snapping in the hearth. The wind sighs hollowly through the mountains. The tower room is cold and littered with strategies. Politics, ancient texts and a goddess’s stolen research paint every surface with logic. There should be no place for emotion. She had to forge a plan to betray her own lover, just as a contingency, just in case. It’s still there like an unfinished sword. Where can her heart be placed amidst steel and ice?

  
She lifts her head and takes a stinging gulp of wine. Then she drinks another. She grimaces and sighs, laying her head back on Solas’s shoulder.

  
“So,” she says at long last, weary and grim. “No more sex during fights. Anything else?”

  
He kisses the top of her head. “A few things more, yes. Trust is something we must seek together. There are additional commitments, however, that I wish to make to you. Your accomplishments are remarkable. You exceed your odds, age and resources, adapting with dizzying speed to each situation. Your talent should be praised. Instead, I have used it as a basis by which to hold you to an impossible standard. The past cannot be undone. Nonetheless, I will aim to avoid putting you in this situation again. If you choose to put forth miracles, do so. I will no longer demand them.”

  
She wonders if he’s speaking of their bargain, that chilling night when he bade her show no reaction to his words. As far as she can recall, it is the only time he has asked her not to feel. Otherwise, composure was something she took upon herself to maintain. It empowered her in an insane situation. It was her lifeline. If he never loses his head again though, like that night on the mountain, she’ll have no complaints.

  
“Understood,” she responds. She shifts, making to stand. “Now that we’ve discussed all this, we should get to bed. Skyhold rises early.”

  
“One thing more,” he chides her gently, arms tightening around her. “At Ghilan’nain’s keep, I bit and restrained you. It’s true you said you don’t mind it. Regardless, I would prefer we refrain from power-based games. Such things are not…appropriate between us. I was not thinking clearly.”

  
“As you warned me beforehand,” she points out, giving up on retreating and drinking from her cup.

  
“Yes,” he says blandly, “and I do not know why I bothered. When have you ever heeded my warnings?”

  
“I’ll put listening on my list of goals,” she says vaguely. The wine is lovely. “Like the drinking. This was a great idea.”

  
“Was it? Share some with me then.”

  
She shifts, straddling his lap and rising up on her knees. He makes no move to prevent it, leaning his head back to look up at her. She takes a sip of wine. Then she kisses him. He opens his mouth obligingly, letting her feed it to him. She catches a stray drop with her thumb, sucking at his lower lip. The dizzying buzz of alcohol has returned to her, softening the cutting edges of her thoughts. The taste of wine is heady. Her body is pressed flush against his chest. His hands have dropped to cradle her hips, grasping and pulling her closer. She can’t decide if she likes the kiss more because of how it feels or because it has made him stop talking.

  
Still, she’s not supposed to manipulate him. She mustn’t- not here and now. He’s right, regardless of how much examining it hurts. Intimacy should not be a device with which to accomplish her goals, be it to silence her loved one or coax out his secrets. She has no wish to trust and leave herself defenseless. It’s more that she hates giving him reason to distrust her.

  
Meanwhile, he offers a surrender- to share his secrets and lay down his masks. Their toxic contest of wills can end.

  
She withdraws, searching his eyes. “If I said I wanted to embrace you,” she says, fighting uncertainty, “because I love you and for no other reason, would you believe me?”

  
“I would,” he says, “yes.” There is something uncertain about his expression as well. It leaves her inexplicably reassured. “I have never loved someone this way,” he admits then. “The longer we live, the harder it becomes to change. If love for love’s sake was more familiar to me, I would not make so many mistakes. We wouldn’t need to strategize.”

  
A smile steals across her mouth. “That’s what this is? Forming a strategy for love?”

  
He dips his head, affirming. “I cannot afford to proceed blindly.”

  
He runs his hands down her arms, then her sides. She kisses a place beneath his eye, setting her cup down to touch him. They begin with tender caresses. The heat is tantalizing, however, and tension from their discussion aches for release. She gets her hands up under his shirt and strokes his stomach. He nuzzles her ear and kneads her ass. Instead of kneeling over him, she nestles snugly in his lap. He plucks at her breast through her clothing. She shifts, rubbing against him, leaving open mouthed kisses on his chin. It devolves quickly into heavy petting with them pulling and grasping at each other.

  
“Bed then?” he suggests, his voice slightly breathless. “Or here?”

  
She would reply but he has begun sucking at her neck. She tilts her head back, reveling in the feel of his lips on her throat. “Here is fine,” she manages after a beat. She’s quite happy right where she is. He unlaces her pants and slips his hands down the back of them. She sits in a cradle of his squeezing fingers. She rolls her hips and he guides her more firmly against him. Her heartbeat quickens easily.

  
She may have been drawn to him for his stories. She still loves every contour of his shape. She maps the edge of his jaw with her lips, hands busy with the laces of his shirt. If only she could somehow convey this ardor. Her love of him persists despite each new fear, each new daunting problem. No matter what happens, it always eclipses the pain. She presses her face against his neck, closing her eyes tightly. Her heart feels bright, as if it is burning in her chest. The emotion both hurts and heals. She exhales heavily, sweeping her hands over the back of his head, kissing his shoulder. He leans his cheek on the top of her head- as if he knows.

  
She gives up trying to think of words. Instead she shakes herself and focuses on their clothing. She has nimble hands and a lot of practice behind her. As much as she has tried to avoid getting off his lap, she still must stand to take off her pants. She hastens at first. She slows down when she notices how he watches her, his eyes half-lidded. When she kneels to pull his pants off, he lifts his hips to help. She gets the fabric to his ankles then leans down, taking him in her mouth.

  
He gasps, caught off guard. She really does love that noise he makes more than anything. It shivers in through her ears then shoots down through her body like fire. She grasps the base of his length, stroking in time with the pull of her mouth. She swirls her tongue around the head. His fingers thread through her hair, caressing in an urgent, needy way. The little hitches in his breathing send shivers across her skin. She gets ambitious. Doing her best to relax her throat, she goes down on him entirely.

  
She is no master at this, of course; she’s never done it before. Her throat contracts on reflex, causing her to gag and her eyes to water. A low, guttural cry escapes Solas. His fingers fist in her hair, holding her briefly before letting go. When she lets up, they’re both panting. She looks at him, taking in his glassy stare, flushed skin and parted lips. She caresses his thighs, kissing the tip of his swollen length as she watches him. Using her throat is messy and the opposite of comfortable. If this is the way he _reacts_ , however…

  
She licks and sucks at him a little more. Then she takes all of him again, earning a shout from him and a strangled curse.

  
“Vhenan, hah- _vhenan_ ,” he entreats raggedly, brushing back her hair, “come up here.”

  
She tries to catch her breath, mouthing lazily at him. It’s an act; the more she hears his voice, the harder it becomes not to writhe on the carpet. He’s not one to be toyed with, however. He flicks the tip of her ear, making her jump. If she doesn’t do something about her arousal at this point, she’ll completely lose her head. She stands shakily and lets him reel her into his lap.

  
Instantly, she’s bombarded by his demanding kisses and kneading hands. She’s flush against his naked chest, kneeling over him once more. He gets a handful of her breast, putting his mouth on her nipple. The stimulation drags a mewl from her lips, heightened by tortuous flicks of his tongue. Her hips rock forward against his chest. She grabs his shoulder to steady herself, panting. Everything’s hazy and heated. The divan is deep and tall enough that she has plenty of leg room. She reaches back, aligning his member beneath her. She sinks onto him, the stretch and sudden fullness making her gasp.

  
She can’t catch her breath so she just clings to him. Solas exhales heavily, wrapping his arms around her. She feels his breathing, the swell of his lungs pushing against her chest. Even the slightest shift, slipping in the slick of her wanting, the twitch of his length buried inside, is delicious. If she can’t compose herself, she won’t last. She relaxes her body around him. Solas kisses her ear then begins nibbling along the blade. She moans, shuddering. When he licks the tip, her restraint snaps.

  
She rocks her hips, finding a rhythm. Her knees wrap tightly around his waist, using the divan as leverage. She keeps one hand on his shoulder and lays the other on the side of his face. She squeezes her body every time she rises up, watching his eyes darken with pleasure. He leans back, holding her gaze, passion clear on his face. He’s beyond riveting. She can’t look away. His hands sweep up her body, caressing her hips and sides and arms. The feeling within her brims and burns with sweetness. The look in his eyes, however, makes her feel loved.

  
Everything in the world has kept them divided. There's the insurmountable age difference. The insurmountable cultural difference. The insurmountable difference in power. Solas was born of the Fade and not of a mother. Pride remains the core architecture of his intricate identity, sculpting him eternally to an ideal. Then life, with its agonies and ruins, threatened to pit Lana against him. She has never felt close to him. She has never felt one with him- until now. 

  
He seeks a brighter future, hoping desperately. He treds new ground, calculating but uncertain of the steps. He wants to heal hurts without loosing his grip on what he loves. Her own feelings resonate in synchronicity. She holds his gaze and sees his soul laid bare. She clings to him, rides him urgently for the sweetness tightening her core. She puts her hand over his heart, the rapid beat within his chest shaking her like thunder. She could cry in relief. Instead she kisses him, holding as tightly as she’s held, until she crests.

  
The feeling draws tears from her eyes. Her head falls back, her body contracting and her scattered thoughts going white. There’s only pleasure like a lightning strike, euphoric in potency, heady and deep. Solas follows seconds later, drawn by her tightening around him. He bows his head to her shoulder, gasping for breath.

  
The tension recedes slowly, leaving them shaking and weak. Even as her heartbeat calms, she makes no room to withdraw. She nuzzles blithely at his neck, feeling drowsy. He puts one hand to the back of her head, caressing her hair. The closeness is a panacea. Sitting in his arms, pressed against him, still joined together cures. She lingers even when the cold night winds chill her back.

  
“Come,” Solas murmurs finally, kissing her temple. He stands, extracting himself from half-discarded clothing. He lifts her with him until she unsteadily finds her feet. He stokes the fire with magic and takes them to bed. She falls back asleep under several quilts, snug against his side.

  
  
o0O0o

 

When morning comes, there are yet more discussions to be had. Fortunately, none are so heavy in weight. Breakfast is an array of sausages, eggs and Orlesian croissants, brought to them by a servant they both quietly thank. They managed to be dressed for the day before anyone came in- though between lingering kisses, caresses and a quick predawn coupling, it was close. Once alone with their meal, the morning seems exquisite. Lana feels weightless, holding Solas’s hand beside her on the divan and trying not to smile at her tea. Even the weather is perfect, sunbeams streaming in from the tower’s stained glass windows.

  
Of course, it could just be all the flowers outside. With the intensity of her problems lately, both tangible and abstract, she forgot about Skyhold’s false spring. It’s been four days since Mythal’s restoration and Solas shows no sign of letting winter return. She should probably get around to dealing with the issue. What’s a tactful way of asking a god to stop causing off season blooming sprees?

  
“You don’t want any sugar in that?” he asks, nodding to her tea. “There’s a bowl of it. They also brought cream and milk.”

  
Possibly, he thinks the only reason she would ever forgo sweetening her tea is because she hasn’t noticed the opportunity. It’s true that sugar, milk and cream are luxuries the Dalish rarely possess. Lana prefers tea to taste like tea however. The bitter flavor of herbs reminds her of forests and open skies.

  
“I like my tea plain,” she tells him and leans over to kiss his cheek. He makes a face and returns to putting jam on his croissant. He eats with grace and elegance. The consistency of his sweet tooth, however, is immortal.

  
“Your schedule today is clear, is it not?” he says then.

  
“For the most part,” she says, mentally reviewing her agendas. “I have to make up a meeting this afternoon that I missed while we were away. Not all of the foreign dignitaries can be brushed off.”

  
“Then you should go and see your friends this morning; I expect they’ve been worried.”

  
The suggestion surprises her, mainly because he said ‘you’ and not ‘we.’ She looks over at him, blinking. He returns her gaze, absently tearing pieces off his croissant and popping them into his mouth.

  
“By myself?” she asks. For some reason, the question feels foolish once spoken. She tries to salvage it. “Are you feeling better then?”

  
“My dearest friend is saved from ruin,” he tells her pleasantly. “I have all the power I need and more to restore the People. My heart understands the reasons behind my mistakes and yet loves my unmasked self. What more could I desire?”

  
She blinks. “Well, alright then. So that’s good.”

  
His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “It’s true I would like to monopolize your time. Doing so, however, would be deleterious to our goals. We have many plans to set in motion. We must concentrate. In the days to come, you must tend to your work and I to mine.”

  
When he puts it like that, she’s a bit nervous about leaving him alone. What will Fen’Harel get up to when left to his own devices? Still, she thinks it will be alright. Probably.

  
“Will you leave Skyhold?” she asks him.

  
“Yes,” he affirms. “I will likely be gone during the daylight hours. None of my duties should keep me overnight. I will be back every evening.”

  
“Leliana wants to hold a council with Fiona, Vivienne and Morrigan once our mages are caught up,” she says. “It should be later this week but obviously, she’ll be wanting to hear from you. Your defense system is the keystone of our preparations.”

  
“I will be there,” he assures her. “And, should you need me in an emergency, call for me. You have only to say my name, vhenan; I will hear.”

  
“So…hypothetically…” She gives a vague shake of her head. “Dread Wolf, please take this mountain that’s falling on me?”

  
“I will strike from existence any mountain that dares,” he vows, his eyes tender.

  
She can’t tell if he’s joking. She, for her part, had not been serious in the slightest. Thus, the brimming warmth in his expression makes her flush. His gaze traces over her reddened face, turning rather more heated. Then he blinks and shakes himself.

  
“Clearly, I should leave now- before I grow distracted.” He stands and glances down at her. “One thing more, my heart. I trust you entirely. Tell your companions whatever you wish of our efforts. So long as you continue to blame the Veil’s collapse on those so-called gods, I doubt the Inquisition shall turn against us. There will come a time, however, when Mythal’s involvement cannot be denied. If you tell them of her now, you may secure even more of their trust.” He paused. “They might be less willing to believe you about me- but I will leave that to your judgement as well.”

  
“Sure thing,” she enthused. “Got it.”

  
As if she could tell anyone about him.

  
He leans down, careful of their dishes, and gives her a lingering kiss. Then he disappears around the divan and down the stairs. She hears the door open and shut.

  
She sits there for a while, still with her tea and empty dishes on the table beside her. For the past nine days, she has been with Solas constantly. They ate together, slept together, dreamed together and woke together. They bathed together, strategized together and worked magic together. It began with raw terror and ended on this sweet, incandescently hopeful note. Often, he absorbed the entirety of her attention. She concentrated on him like she’s concentrated on nothing else. The difference between Solas’s presence and absence is stark enough to induce vertigo.

  
Lana exhales heavily and lets her head fall back against the divan. She’s floored. She's truly by herself once more, back in this room where she has puzzled through mysteries. It’s like waking up from a dream that is both nightmare and rapturous delusion. Has she been functioning logically this entire time? Solas is Fen’Harel. She’s going to die in seven years. Ghilan’nain’s a horror show. Mythal is revived. The Veil is scheduled for demolition in about two more years. There’s a plan in place to ensure the survival of mortal Thedas. Then the war of all wars shall begin a new age.

  
The suffering and death she has struggled to quell for over a year, the people lost and lives ruined, were caused by the person she loves.

  
She doesn’t move from her place. Instead, she grasps after sanity. She tries to rationalize her experiences. The end result is far more similar to listless hysteria than calm. She closes her eyes. Everything is going to be fine. Logically, she knows this. Logically, she can support this assertion with facts. Solas took the time to give her these critical assurances and- when she tried to avoid confronting her fears- he made her face them. It’s because of this that she isn’t dying behind a smile. Left to her own denying methods, she would have fractured and disintegrated within herself.

  
Logically, she knows he has saved her. It’s just taking her heart a while to catch up with her brain. A wretched, pained noise escapes her lips. She scrubs her hands over her eyes and tries to breathe slowly.

  
“It’s fine now,” she says to the empty room. “See? It’s fine now,” but emotions are not physical wounds. She can’t heal them with a magic spell and forget they ever happened.

  
It takes time. It’s like how Solas told her he could not process emotion so quickly. In this case, she cannot either. It won’t take her a week but for now, she’s fragile inside. She’ll get better- in a little while, bit by bit, eventually. She must recognize that truth and endure. 

  
A whole hour passes before she stands. That’s how long she needs to sort her thoughts back into functioning order. At last, however, she remembers that she is going to go see Dorian. She arranges her lies and her alibis. She reclaims the mask of pleasant composure that Solas cast away. She has minimal time to spend coddling herself. She must move forward before she loses control of her surroundings and something else breaks. She descends the chamber stairs and opens the door to the tower.

  
Cole is standing outside. His face is deeply shadowed in the dim passage, made more so by his hat. He carries a stuffed toy about the size of a cat or small dog. Wordlessly, he holds it out to her.

  
“Cole,” Lana greets haltingly. She’s used to the spirit and how he behaves. Nonetheless, something inside of her aches. Why can’t she interact with anyone normal? Just for a little while? Her days have been surreal enough. 

  
“Here,” says Cole earnestly. “It’s for you.”

  
She exhales and makes herself look down at the toy. That’s when she gets a shock. It’s very well made, soft fabric stitched securely into a clever shape. It reminds her of Clan Lavellan’s hahrens, teaching her to do their sewing in exchange for a tale. They always made owls, bears and rabbits for the da’lens. None of the charming, little creations- with their darling embroidered noses and black stone eyes- were shaped like wolves.

  
This one is though. It’s a black wolf, four legs and a tail hanging slack from a rounded body. Though recognizably lupine, its pointy ears and long face are precious. It doesn’t look threatening at all.

  
Since it has six eyes instead of two, made from sewed-on black stones, it’s rather obvious who it’s meant to be.

  
“Pfft,” Lana chokes out, amused but uncertain. She takes the stuffed wolf and holds it at eye level. “Oh no, Cole. What is this? Fen’Harel? It’s very thoughtful of you to get this for me- how did you even- but I think the Dread Wolf might be offended by this representation of him.”

  
“It doesn’t represent _him_ ,” says Cole. “It represents his wish.”

  
She drags her eyes away from the strange and adorable toy. Her smile fades. The spirit is looking at her with that guileless expression of his. The honesty of his gaze seems to give him a visible luminescence, eerie in the shadowed tower passage.

  
She speaks very quietly then. “What do you mean?”

  
“He towers over you. He is older than you. He is powerful and strange.” Cole tilts his head slightly. “But he wants to make you feel safe. To be familiar and trusted. To give comfort and support. It _has_ to look silly. It’s not about pride! It’s about giving you a way to percieve him as the friend he has committed to be.”

  
“I-” She tries to hold her feelings back but instead she shudders. No one emotion stands out. Her mind just swims with amorphous impulses, all bittersweet like an ocean of tears. Cole is giving her the toy to change her perception of Solas by association. His words, however, imply that Solas _asked_ him to. Did Solas put aside his pride for a way to soothe her fear? Does he know then? Has he guessed? This tells of him glimpsing her mortality, her vulnerabilities, despite her best efforts- and reaching out to ease her pain.

  
She is both touched and shaken. She blinks back another collapse. “Have you known…who he is this entire time, Cole?”

  
“I’m not the point,” the spirit refutes. “I came to help _you_. You can’t hold in the pain. It’s okay if you take a moment to rest. Nothing beloved will break while you rest.”

  
She meets his eyes but says nothing. The only response is to accept his words. She nods. Then, holding the toy to her chest, she steps back into her room and closes the door. She doesn’t hear Cole’s footsteps receding. Somehow, regardless, she knows he has gone. His presence fades the way clouds pass over the sun. 

  
She sinks down onto the floor, her back against the door frame. The thread and fabric version of Fen’Harel stares harmlessly up at her. It’s adorable. It’s so void of threat that she scarcely knows what she’s looking at. She wraps her arms around it and stares up at the ceiling.

  
If she breaks down and cries in the comfort of solitude, no one ever knows.

 


End file.
